Harry Potter and the Labyrinth of Daerandir
by Halm Vendrella
Summary: Voldemort has been revealed, but that doesn't mean his plans will be made with any less subtlety. With a new level of their education upon the trio, it is time for them to learn the difference between wizards and witches, and those who simply use magic.
1. Chapter One: Questionable Departures

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all characters and locations are copyright property of J.K. Rowling. All original characters are the sole intellectual property of the author, and should not be reused without express consent. This fiction is intended solely for non-profit personal entertainment.

**                                                                                      CHAPTER ONE - QUESTIONABLE DEPARTURES**

            Red-gold rays of summer sun were skimming the tops of the trees, washing over the uniform rows of tidy houses that lined the streets of Little Whinging. It had been a mild, pleasant summer so far, which suited the residents of Privet Drive just as well as all things completely normal and mundane. To one boy, sitting at his desk and gazing out a window on the second floor of number four, the weather was not nearly so comforting.

            He was young, fifteen, almost sixteen, but the vivid green eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses were those of someone who had seen things beyond his years. Most of the rest of him was perfectly normal, with unruly black hair and a somewhat spindly frame, which was more than slightly exaggerated by the overlarge t-shirt and jeans that he wore. One thing that stood out when you looked at Harry Potter, though, was the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. A hallmark of his past that, despite a lifetime of seeing it every day in the mirror, he could no longer get his mind off of.

            It was the twenty-first of July, and barely four weeks had passed since he had said goodbye to his friends at King's Cross Station and come back to the Dursley's. Those same friends had produced a touching, and startlingly effective, gift at that parting: a message delivered to his formerly oppressive aunt and uncle that had resulted in a much improved environment upon returning to Privet Drive. He had never thought it would be possible for the Dursleys to treat him as any kind of real family… and indeed, he had been right. However, with the not-so-subtle intimations of certain "wild-eyed hooligans", whom Uncle Vernon could often be heard muttering about (accompanied by furtive glances, as if fearing that the walls had sprouted ears and wildly spinning eyes), for the first time Harry did not have to worry about suffering too greatly while spending his summer holiday in the care of his relatives. Indeed, Harry's time spent at the Dursley's these few weeks might have actually been better than bearable, if for a single minute of it he could stop dwelling on the events of last June.

            The summer months, often a time of isolation for Harry, were not helping his situation at all. The Dursleys, though cowed from their usual antics, made up for it by being even less sociable than usual. Harry could count the number of times someone had spoken to him since his return on a single hand. His Aunt Petunia didn't even order him around to help with the chores anymore. He had found himself almost hoping that he were being watched over again this summer by members of the Order of the Phoenix, so that maybe he could have someone from the wizarding world to visit with once in a while, but if he was being observed, he hadn't seen any sign of it. While at first he had been grateful for the solitude, Harry had soon realized that being continuously and utterly alone with his thoughts had made coping with the recent death of his godfather a regressive battle.

            Regular correspondence with his friends was one of his few distractions, but it was just that – a distraction, and not a cure. Letters both coming and going were all little more than hollow chit-chat. Nothing of any importance could be risked saying, a fact that he had been reminded of almost immediately. The first letter he had received from his best friend, Ron Weasley, had been delivered by an exhausted and ruffled Pigwidgeon, with a nasty slash in the envelope that Harry was almost positive had been made by a talon. The necessity of stealth was almost a mixed blessing, though. Poring over every word to ensure that nothing could be gleaned by an eavesdropper made writing a single letter a lengthy and involving process, an opportunity Harry took to keep himself occupied as long as possible.

            His subscription to the _Daily Prophet_ was his other reprieve. Even without the lesson he learned about skimming the headlines the previous year, Harry would have read his copies twice cover-to-cover anyway. It was one more thing to pass the time.

            No number of letters or newspapers was sufficient to keep him totally distracted, however, and so Harry found himself now. Holed up in his room since lunch, waiting out the interminable time between that meal and dinner, he had already written long (but essentially empty) notes to Hermione Granger, Remus Lupin, most of the Weasleys, and even Mad-Eye Moody. He would have written more, but his owl Hedwig, who would have to actually be able to carry the post in order to deliver it, had hooted incredulously and nipped his hand when he pulled out the ninth piece of parchment. The _Sunday Prophet_ was set aside (folded and piled neatly, simply because that task alone had taken a half hour) after the customary second reading, despite the fact that it seemed all the articles were nothing but endless reprints of the same warnings, advisories, and editorials focused on the single subject locked into the mind of every witch and wizard: the return of Lord Voldemort.

            Harry wished that his thoughts could be so simple, especially after certain prophetic revelations at the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. However, his mind almost never dwelled on the looming threat of the greatest Dark sorcerer in history… it always drew itself to the sight of his godfather, Sirius Black, falling through the curtained archway in the Department of Mysteries, never to be seen again. It replayed before him over and over again, and it was fast approaching the point where not even his daily distractions could totally chase that haunting image from his mind's eye. It was as if a ghostly portrait were plastered before his eyes with a Permanent Sticking Charm. He leaned back in his chair, which gave a muffled creak, and rubbed his eyes vigorously with his knuckles until splotches of brightness blurred his vision.

            He could hear muffled clatter down in the kitchen, and knew that dinner would be ready soon. Part of him was anxious for the scheduled diversion, but the rest of him knew that sitting at a table and being roundly ignored would be no better this time than any.

            The call to the evening meal promptly came from the kitchen, and Harry went down to join his uncle, aunt, and cousin. His Aunt Petunia, ladling thick stew onto the plates as her wary eyes darted constantly towards the windows, was eerily quiet. Uncle Vernon coaxed his massive girth into a chair and shot Harry a glance, but kept silent apart from an indecipherable grunt. Last to arrive was Harry's cousin, Dudley, looking less like the young killer whale of old, and more like a Christmas ham on extensive weight training. His success in the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing League had blossomed with further promise over the last year, as Harry had been quick to learn and constantly subjected to second-hand mentions of; Dudley's prowess at beating boys his age into senseless pulp was ninety percent of the conversation undertaken in his presence. He subjected himself to the Dursley's gloating quietly, mostly because he could care less how physically imposing his cousin had become. Harry knew the titanic bully would likely be rendered impotent by a few choice words such as "magic" and anything that sounded like "dementor". Not that he had yet needed to exercise any key phrases: Dudley seemed to be avoiding him at all costs.

            They ate in silence, which gradually started setting off warning bells in the back of Harry's mind. The Dursleys invariably conducted their dinner table conversations as normal, simply ignoring Harry's presence (though not making him a topic of discussion, as had once been common). The apparent vacuum around the table this particular evening was striking Harry as somehow ominous.

            He wasn't about to be the one to break the silence, but soon enough, Uncle Vernon dropped his spoon with a clatter and cleared his throat several times. "Yes, well…" he began awkwardly, glancing back and forth between Harry and Aunt Petunia. "We've been in, er, contact…" he paused, his eyes darting to all the windows in rapid succession, "with _your kind_," he finished, whispering so softly that Harry couldn't be sure he heard him correctly. He was almost positive he hadn't. The Dursleys avoided anything and everything to do with magic and wizards as if it were an infectious disease. Harry wasn't even aware they had known _how_ to get in touch with the wizarding world, short of asking to borrow Hedwig.

            "Er…" Harry prompted unsurely.

            "The three of us, that is to say Petunia, Dudley, and I," Uncle Vernon continued in a more normal volume, "will be leaving for York next week. Dudley has qualified to represent Smeltings in the National Summer Boxing League finals, and we're not about to take…" he stopped himself and worked his jaw, "we're not able to bring you along with us. That headmaster of yours, Dimblemore—"

            "Dumbledore," Harry corrected automatically.

            "Whatever. He said he would make 'arrangements' for you." Uncle Vernon ground his teeth, making the cords of his neck stand out angrily. Harry had a good idea why. Now that he had learned the truth behind why he had to stay at the Dursley's over the summers, he imagined Professor Dumbledore would not be happy about him needing to leave after barely a month of relative safety.

            Uncle Vernon recovered most of his composure, reached into one of the pockets of his Sunday jumper, and pulled out a folded and sealed piece of parchment. He held it gingerly, as if it might make to bite him. He handed it over to Harry, who broke the wax seal and began reading. The rest of the Dursleys took this as a sign that dinner was over, and rose to clear the table.

       Dear Harry,

               Though it is against my strong suggestions, it seems there is no convincing 

          your aunt and uncle not to take their holiday without you. While I'm sure 

          you realize the importance of this matter, I would guess you are understandably 

          anxious to be with friends again. 

               Sometime in the next few days, the knocks that equal the number of the phoenix's 

          roost will tell you when your ride out has arrived. You will not know them, as 

          I'm afraid the more familiar candidates for escort are all engaged with other duties, 

          as well as arrangements that you will find out about shortly. I can assure you, 

          however, that they can be trusted implicitly.

Sincerely,

_                                                                                      **Albus Dumbledore**_

            Harry read the letter twice to be sure, but the message seemed simple enough. "The knocks that equal the number of the phoenix's home" almost surely meant twelve knocks for Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry winced, and hoped fiercely that that was not where he was being taken… Grimmauld Place had been Sirius' home for only a short time, but it was also the place of the last happy memories of his godfather. He shook his head, trying to will away that train of thought, and quickly occupied himself with reading the letter twice more. Whenever he got to the part about the phoenix's home, however, he found himself once again drifting down a path he was still unwilling to tread.

            For possibly the first time in his life, he was grateful when Uncle Vernon started speaking to him. "We'll be leaving on the Saturday next, and I trust you will be well away by then?"

            Harry nodded. "The letter says someone should be by to pick me up before then. It doesn't say exactly when."

            Uncle Vernon exhaled heavily, his thick walrus moustache fluttering, but managed to keep his tone reasonable. "Crumblefore mentioned the need for secrecy and such rubbish, but I must say that he's being more than a little ridiculous. What does this Headmaster of yours think could happen, that some maniac would set up an ambush and start World War III on our doorstep?"

            Without thinking, Harry replied, "Probably."

            A plate crashed into the sink, causing three of the four people in the kitchen to jump. Harry noticed his Aunt Petunia's hands shaking as she tried to clean the dishes, and against his better judgment he felt a pang of sympathy for the Dursleys. He was marked for death by an unequivocally evil and violent wizard, the target of a force that he would not even wish upon his xenophobic relatives.

            "I mean they'd probably try, but they obviously didn't intercept the letter, and even if they had, they probably couldn't even get near the house," Harry went on hastily. The Dursleys may not have been much of a family to him, but they were all he had, and even they didn't deserve to live in fear of an attack by Lord Voldemort. The wizarding world was being fearful enough for the lot of them.

            "I'd like to see them try, anyway," Uncle Vernon blustered, after regaining a bit of his color. "Our old Duddster could knock the lot of them halfway to Southampton if they dared show their faces."

            Glancing at Dudley, Harry distinctly doubted that his cousin could even muster the courage to take a swing, but he kept that thought to himself.

            "So you don't know when they're coming for you, eh?" Uncle Vernon continued, apparently building steam for a good, long rant on the deficiencies of wizard-kind, a hobby he'd not had much practice at recently. "Are we supposed to schedule ourselves around the random beck and call of whoever appears at our doorstep?"

            Harry sublimated the strong urge to roll his eyes. "I'm sure they won't be too much of an inconvenience. I'll be gone with them as soon as they arrive," he said, trying not to sound too hopeful.

            "Who's coming for you, anyway? Those Wuzzles, the lot with red hair?"

            "No," said Harry, who wasn't sure whether he should be angry or laugh at his uncle's continuing inability to master the names of anyone not from the Muggle world, however simple. He settled in the place he seemed to take more and more often these days: resigned indifference.

            "Good," Uncle Vernon grunted, and across the room Dudley's shoulders slumped noticeably in relief. He had not had very good experiences with wizards, the Weasleys in particular. Uncle Vernon opened his mouth to continue ranting, but was interrupted by the ring of the telephone.

            Grateful that Uncle Vernon had been stopped before he could really get going, as Harry was betting that quite a tirade had been building up in his uncle ever since the beginning of summer holiday, he quietly excused himself to his room. He shut his door behind him and flopped down onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. Part of him almost wished that his uncle weren't so in control of his temper… a good long row might give him a bit of comfort in knowing that he wasn't the only one who felt like screaming at all the world at the top of his lungs.

            Scowling, Harry flipped over and grumbled at the injustice of it all. Shouting about it wouldn't solve anything, any more than it had last year. In fact, his being so hotheaded was why his godfather had ended up disappearing behind that gently swaying black curtain... Harry slammed his face into his pillow. He winced as he felt the frames of his glasses dig into his face, but he welcomed the twinge of pain that allowed him to keep his thoughts off his godfather.

            He tried to flood his mind with musings over who could be picking him up. That diversion was quickly exhausted, though, and he rolled off his bed. He paced restlessly, looking around for something to do. He had already written letters to everyone he could, and Hedwig was gone anyway. The _Sunday Prophet_ was still sitting in the corner, but Harry couldn't bring himself to read articles such as "Ten Mental Exercises to Protect Yourself from the Imperius Curse" again. And because sixth year students at Hogwarts would not know their class schedules until they received the results of their O.W.L.s, Harry didn't even have any summer homework to occupy him. _Figures,_ he thought disgustedly,_ the first time I've ever _wanted_ to do homework, and I haven't got any_.

            With a heavy sigh, he gave up and fell into bed, surrendering himself to sleep and the dreams that always followed.

                                                                                                                            -- -- --

            The prospect of Harry's departure seemed to place a kind of quiet tension upon Privet Drive. He didn't have to stretch to make the assumption that his relatives were looking forward to being rid of him just as much as he was to leaving. As each day passed, though, Aunt Petunia's glances through the curtains became more and more frequent, and Uncle Vernon's impatient fidgeting became more and more pronounced.

            Harry tried his best to continue avoiding the rest of his family (a task that required no effort), constantly hoping that whoever was coming to pick him up would do so soon. But by Tuesday, he had exhausted all the insignificant small talk he could write to his friends about, his stack of _Daily Prophets_ was proving almost as captivating as a lecture by Professor Binns, and no amount of idle thinking was going to occupy him long enough to retain any semblance of sanity, not with the blessed end of another summer with the Dursleys on the horizon. By Wednesday evening he began the worrying. His friends, his O.W.L.s, Voldemort, his sixth year at Hogwarts; any trivial bit that popped into his head was bound to eventually degenerate into a near-panic attack.

            Thrashing around sleeplessly on his bed Thursday evening, the small part of Harry that had maintained rationality was realizing that he had become a bona fide nervous wreck.

            Friday was one of the most beautiful days of the summer yet, but Harry felt as if he were living within a fog. His fretting was now continuous, and had extended to wondering if something had happened to the unknown someones who were supposed to release him from the prison of Privet Drive. 

            Uncle Vernon seemed to have reached the end of his own patience as well, and as they sat down for dinner, he barely touched his food, aside from cutting his steak into progressively smaller pieces in between scathing glances at Harry.

            For his part, Harry was keen to avoid the fury he sensed his Uncle desperately longed to release. But by the time Uncle Vernon's cut of meat had reached a consistency somewhere between pudding and soup, he couldn't contain his own frustration.

            "I'm—"

            As soon as Harry opened his mouth, a series of sharp knocks came from the front door.

            The Dursleys all jumped and gripped their silverware with white knuckles, testament to the strained mood of the household, but weeklong anticipation had Harry listening intently to the long string of sharp raps on the door.

            Seven… They'd already knocked more than any normal visitor would… Eight… Almost there, might he finally be able to leave… Nine… But what if someone had intercepted the letter… Ten… What if they'd cracked the code… Eleven… What if… Twelve.

            The silence was the loudest Harry had ever heard.

            Even the Dursleys were holding their breath, and some part of Harry realized he hadn't told them about the signal. Nobody moved for several seconds.

            The knocking started again, each sound rapping at a slow, purposeful interval. The knocks reached twelve and stopped again, but Harry was still frozen. The letter hadn't said anything about repeating the sign. Did this mean they weren't the ones? Were they just some common visitors, one of Dudley's gang, perhaps? Were they…

            Finally Dudley, of all people, rose and headed to the door. Harry couldn't bring himself to get out of his seat, until the storm of his rambling thoughts crashed to a halt on a singularly nonsensical realization: he didn't have his wand on him.

            Normally, such a fact would simply annoy him a bit, or perhaps make him feel slightly less secure. After all, he had little practical use for his wand while on summer holiday. But his rationality had left him some time before, and the thought that he didn't have his most vital instrument of self-defense upon his person at that very instant inspired a sudden, all-consuming panic. He leapt from his chair and bolted from the kitchen, dashed past Dudley, who was in the foyer just reaching to open the door, and bolted up the steps three at a time. He careened into his room (managing to bounce the door off the wall so hard it swung closed), nearly tumbled headfirst over his bed, and slammed with a thud into the side of his desk, knocking away his breath. He gasped for air while groping across the surface of his desk until he felt the reassuring grip of his wand, while his adrenaline and panic-heightened senses registered the sound of the front door closing and voices coming from downstairs.

           Still trying to catch his breath, he rose to leave when his left knee scored a solid hit on the bottom of his desk drawer. The spasm of his leg and the explosion of stars in front of his eyes finally seemed to wrench him back to his senses, however, and after waiting a moment for his head to clear, he was finally calm enough to realize the foolishness of his panic. His face hot and feeling utterly sheepish, he pocketed his wand and left the room, making his way back downstairs. 

            He didn't notice the cloaked figure in the hallway behind him, who had been scratching his head and examining the doors as if looking for something. As Harry walked away, the figure's face lit up in recognition, he drew out a small pouch, and went into Harry's room.

            Several calm, conversational voices were coming from the living room, which dawned on Harry as out of place. To his knowledge, Uncle Vernon had never been civil with a single member of the wizarding world in his life, and Aunt Petunia and Dudley often weren't even capable of speech in the presence of people who had little or no concept of what the Dursleys defined as "normal".

            He rounded the last wall to the living room cautiously, and stopped as soon as the scene came into view. His mouth dropped open as he saw his Uncle Vernon, smiling pleasantly and shaking the offered hand of a man in a long, shimmering gray cloak, with shining silvery blonde hair that reached his shoulders. His uncle was sounding almost relieved as he said something about ensuring Harry was off safely before the Dursleys left for York the next day.

            Harry's mouth was starting to stretch to inhuman proportions as his Aunt Petunia, wearing the smile she usually reserved for Uncle Vernon's business dinners, asked "Where _did_ you get that dress?" to a striking woman wearing robes of deep forest green. Short of dirt, it was his aunt's least favorite color.

            Before his brain could begin to digest the sheer absurdity of the scene before him, Uncle Vernon called out, "Ah, there he is!"

            Everyone turned to face Harry, who was still standing in the archway looking as if he'd just been blasted with the strongest Confounding Charm in history. The two strangers looked at him, and the sight of them seemed to bring Harry out of his stupor, or at least redirect it. They were unlike anyone he had ever seen before, their faces beautiful beyond description, with fair skin almost glowing as though it bottled some inner light. They smiled at him. The man's was a roguish, perfectly-toothed grin that would have made Gilderoy Lockhart in his heyday ragingly jealous. The woman's was a soft, dazzling spectacle that sent shivers down Harry's spine both like and unlike those he had felt at the slightest glance from Cho Chang in years past.

            "Well don't just stand there, Harry, say hello to our guests," Uncle Vernon called with a jolly chuckle.

            Harry did a double take. He could not once recall his uncle addressing him by his name before.

            "The honor is all ours, I must say," the gray-cloaked man said in light, jovial tones, striding forward and offering a hand to Harry. He returned the man's strong handshake as best he could, which left his arm feeling like it was flopping clumsily as his brain struggled to catch up. He still hadn't gotten past that part about why his aunt and uncle were treating these strangers like visiting royalty.

            The woman walked up, seeming as if she were gliding across the carpet, the hem of her robes giving the barest swish of dignified movement. She bowed lightly to Harry, touching her right shoulder with her left hand as she dipped with a single, graceful movement. "Albus has told us so much about you," she said, and her voice was like the most beautiful song Harry had ever heard.

            "Er – th-thanks…" he managed weakly, a smile cracking his face that felt both preeminently stupid, and in the presence of the woman, blissfully perfect.

            "Oh, now, don't be shy, lad," Uncle Vernon laughed, "I know it might be a bit of a shock seeing one of your sort dressed so well, but that's no reason to go speechless. You're sure I can't take your coat?" he asked the woman politely.

            Harry would have boggled some more, but he seemed to have suddenly forgotten how. Not only had his uncle offered to take a coat the woman didn't have, he had said the words "your sort" in a manner that sounded like the highest of compliments.

            Had the Dursleys gone blind, mad, or both?

            "No, thank you," the woman replied.

            "We cannot remain long, I'm afraid," the man interjected, "we arrived late as it is. I hope we didn't inconvenience you."

            "On, no, not at all," Uncle Vernon said dismissively. "You're sure you can't stay for a spot of tea?"

            The man shook his head. "No, we really must be off. Perhaps some other time."

            "Yes, yes, we'd be delighted. I'll admit, we don't often entertain anyone from Harry's part of the world, especially not such fine people as yourselves. I daresay, I'd not be able to pick you out of a crowd at any of the fine establishments we frequent!" he said with a laugh H

Harry remembered from every time an important guest at Privet Drive had told a joke.

            Before Harry could form one of the dozens of confused remarks and questions his brain was demanding he ask, the man had reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Well, we must be off. Dumbledore is expecting us five minutes ago, no doubt."

            Harry moved at the light but insistent touch and started making his way to the door when Uncle Vernon called out, "Oh, you almost forgot these!"

            The man turned as Uncle Vernon walked up, holding out both hands, which were clasping empty air. The man reached out and took the two invisible objects, moving one hand as if to casually place a hat upon his head, and the other as if to clasp and twirl an illusory walking stick. With a tip of his unseen hat, the man turned, once more ushering Harry along with him.

            As the three of them walked out, Harry heard his cousin saying, "Be sure to come and visit again!" and his Uncle Vernon adding, "We'll see you next summer, Harry!"

            The man was chuckling as soon as the door shut behind them, and a glance to his side showed Harry that the woman was failing to hide a playful smile.

            "Er, excuse me," he finally managed, several steps down the path, "but I never, uh, got your names."

            "Tamison Silverrose, at your service," the man replied, never breaking stride.

            "Teira," the woman replied simply, inclining her head courteously.

            "And this is the third member of your escort, whom I hope managed to pack all your things while we were talking," the man continued, indicating a shadowy figure leaning against a lamppost. He straightened as they approached and nodded confirmation to Tamison, and then regarded Harry with a piercing gaze that strongly reminded him of Dumbledore.

            The man's smile reminded him of the Headmaster, as well, as he discovered when they reached him at the well-lit curbside. "I'm Ayralin," he greeted amiably, "It's good to meet you at least, Mr. Potter." His voice was stronger than Tamison's, and more serious, but after half expecting a grandfatherly voice to match his other similarities to Dumbledore, Harry was met with an amicable tone that instantly reminded him of none other than his godfather.

            The thought took him unawares, making him drop his gaze to try and shield the discomfort he suddenly felt. As such, he didn't catch Teira's wince at his reaction.

            "Well, no time to dawdle with pleasantries. We need to make it to the meeting as quickly as possible," Ayralin continued, sounding casual but exchanging a significant glance with Teira.

            They began to walk, with Harry slightly behind Tamison and Teira, and Ayralin behind him. The deluge of questions he still held from the encounter in the living room quickly brought Harry out of his painful reminiscence. "Who are you?" he blurted, before he could stop himself to form a more sensible query.

            Tamison smiled – he never seemed to really stop smiling, actually. "I assume you don't mean our names?" he asked lightly, and Harry nodded meekly. "We're friends of Albus Dumbledore. He wanted us to meet you, and the rest of your friends and the Order members were all otherwise engaged, so we killed two birds with one stone, as you say."

            Harry was silent for a moment before pressing, somewhat nervously, "You didn't answer my question."

            "Sharp lad," said Tamison approvingly. 

            "I would guess you were unaffected by our disguises back in your house?" Teira asked.

            "Of course not, or did you miss the look on his face when he saw you?" Tamison interjected roguishly.

            "What disguises?" Harry asked. "Did you use a spell to fool my aunt and uncle like that?"

            "Not a spell as you would define it," Teira replied vaguely. "More like a… natural camouflage."

            "What do you mean?" Harry said, growing even more confused. "You are wizards, aren't you?"

            To his further bafflement, Tamison shook his head. "No, we aren't. Dumbledore will explain when we arrive," he said, raising a hand to stop Harry, who had already opened his mouth to ask another question. "He seems to have a gift for making such things understandable. If I try, you'll just be worse off," he said with a wry grin.

            "So what _did_ the Dursleys see, then?" Harry asked curiously.

            "Exactly what they wanted to see," Teira replied cryptically.

            "To their eyes, we appeared as a pair of very well-dressed aristocrats, it would seem," Tamison explained. "It's a good bit of fun, trying to figure out what people see of us so we can play along. It helps that we've had a lot of practice."

            "You got carried away with the hat and cane, though," Teira chided. "It would have been quite a shock to them if you had bungled it and broken the enchantment."

            Tamison shrugged. "If anything, they deserved a good shock to the system. Dumbledore was ready to curse them halfway to Eldamar after they were so stubborn about their little trip."

            Filing away the odd name as one of undoubtedly many wizarding locations he'd simply never heard of, Harry pressed on to his next question. "And why were they acting so… weird?" he said, failing to come up with any other word to describe the Dursley's behavior. "My uncle's never been that pleasant. To me, or to anyone he knows is a wizard, well-dressed or not."

            "You're just as perceptive as Dumbledore told us," Teira said with a commending smile, which caused Harry to feel heat rising to his cheeks.

            "What you saw was a small but rather interesting side effect our presence has upon Muggles," Tamison offered.

            "We're here," Ayralin said, before Harry could ask Tamison what he meant by "our presence".

            Harry looked around, and recognized that they were in the alley between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk; the narrow aisle where he had fought off a pair of dementors the year before… and where he had first seen his godfather.

            "Where did you leave the stone, Teira?" Tamison asked, shuffling along the left side of the alley.

            "Here it is," she called from slightly farther down the dim path. They all gathered near her. "Just touch the guidestone," she instructed Harry, holding up a flat, circular rock that fit comfortably into her palm. The top of it was carved with symbols that Harry had never seen before, though they looked somewhat like Arithmancy runes Hermione worked on. 

            "A Portkey?" Harry asked.

            "No, though very similar," Ayralin replied. "A guidestone is untraceable, and a great deal less turbulent, thankfully."

            Harry reached out and placed the tips of his fingers on the stone, which was slightly warm to the touch. He studiously avoided looking at Ayralin. Not only did his voice remind him of Sirius, in the barely perceptible light of the alleyway, his thick, dark hair made the resemblance almost eerie.

            Tamison and Ayralin touched the guidestone as well, and Teira began to chant softly under her breath. 

            As they stood there waiting, Harry was struck by a worrisome detail. He looked around, straining his neck left and right while trying to keep his fingers on the stone.

            Tamison noticed his fidgeting. "What is it?" he asked.

            "Er, where are all my things? You said he packed them all," Harry said, nodding to Ayralin, "but I don't see my trunk… or anything, for that matter."

            The dark-haired man reached beneath his cloak and drew out a small pouch, jingling it soundlessly. "I took everything that wasn't bolted down, just to be sure."

            Harry stared at the tiny bag in confusion as Teira's chanting reached a crescendo, and the world seemed to dissolve around him.

.

.

.

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***A/N*** - I must have written more versions of this opening chapter than I have for any other fic I've ever done… well, for HP, at least. I will be attempting to recreate JKR's wonderful style and subtlety to the best of my comparatively inferior abilities. As such, always be on the look out for tiny hints, and let no word go unheeded. If there is one thing I have been able to assimilate from reading the HP books, it is a love of making sure every word counts. Of course, since I've nowhere near the guile with words that our favorite British billionairess does, I'll get one of two results. One, my "subtlety" might end up being glaringly obvious to anyone with the wits given a Blast-Ended Skrewt, leading to a boring plot and spoiler-filled review box. Or, I might fly so far under everyone's radar that I overshoot surprise and suspense entirely to end up with a bunch of people who have no idea how my story got where it did.

Of course, this is all assuming I finish the story at all. My HP fanfics have the disconcerting tendency of inspiring me to pick up the series itself again, which leads me to look from those pages to my own and wonder what in the bloody hell I'm doing trying to emulate perfection.

I will, of course, leave the true discernment of the quality of my work up to you unbelievably patient folks, who have not only read my first chapter, but have survived my ramblings long enough to get through these three pointlessly babbling paragraphs. Which, as I am sure you will be thankful for, now end.


	2. Chapter Two: Gatherings

**                                                                                                    CHAPTER TWO -** **GATHERINGS**

            The walls of the alley faded away, and everything around Harry disappeared into an indistinct haze, leaving the world around him a midnight blue except for his own body and a flat, circular plane of soft light glowing from next to his hand. A soft wind was blowing, ruffling his hair, and murky patches of darker color flowed around him. It was both like and unlike traveling by Portkey, where a sharp jerk behind your navel was followed by a howl of wind, swirling color, no small amount of bumping into whoever you were traveling with, and a rather rough landing. The wind died away as quickly as it had appeared, and the world began to grow lighter, taking shape in fits and starts as if small candles were being lit to chase away each small portion of the dimness.

            With a final rush, the trip with the guidestone came to an end. Before Harry could recognize his surroundings, a loud thud came from behind him. He spun quickly, hand automatically moving for his wand, but he stopped short when he recognized his best friend, Ron Weasley, toppled backwards over his chair and lying on the floor in the kitchen of the Burrow.

           The red-haired boy rubbed the back of his head, wincing as he sat up. "Blimey Harry, I knew you were on your way, but I didn't know you'd learned to Apparate."

            "I haven't," he replied, helping Ron up off the floor. Once he was standing, Harry noticed that his lanky friend had gained a few more inches on him this summer. "It was a guidestone, whatever that is."

            Ron just then seemed to notice the other three occupants of the Weasleys' kitchen. He blinked.

            "Sorry if we startled you," said Teira. "We'll be right back– there's another pickup we need to make tonight before the meeting."

            Without further explanation, the three strangers gathered around the guidestone, and Teira began another soft incantation. The event was not nearly so gradual on the observer's end of things: the three simply disappeared, instantly and soundlessly.

            Harry looked at Ron, who was blinking repeatedly at the point where the three visitors had been standing. "Who were _they_?" Ron asked.

            "Teira, Ayralin, and Tamison Silverrose," explained Harry. "They picked me up from the Dursleys, and I bet I have even more questions about them than you. They said Dumbledore would explain."

            "I didn't recognize them, and the names aren't familiar either. I'd probably have heard of them if they worked at the Ministry," Ron said thoughtfully. "He's coming here tonight though, Dumbledore, I mean; a big meeting's on. 'Keep watch', dad tells me. As if there were anything to watch."

            Harry smiled and looked around. For him, there was plenty to watch in the Burrow. An endless assortment of magical knickknacks filled the home, from self-knitting socks to the amazing grandfather clock that showed not the time, but the locations and states of the assorted Weasleys. Most of them were currently on "traveling", though Ron and Ginny's hands were pointed to "home".

            As if on cue, the sound of footsteps came bounding down the stairs, and with a swish of long red hair, the youngest Weasley sibling appeared. "Harry!" Ginny called. "I thought I heard you down here. When did you arrive?"

            "Just now," Harry said.

            Ginny looked around, and her brow furrowed. "How did you get here? Dad said you'd be coming, but you haven't learned to Apparate, have you?"

            "No, some friends of Dumbledore's dropped me off with a guidestone."

            She blinked at him. "Who with a what?"

            He gave the enigmatic trio's names again, but explained that that was all he knew about them. "And I'm not really sure what a guidestone is either… it was like a Portkey, but they said it's untraceable."

            Ginny just shrugged. "Oh well. Unanswered questions are becoming the new chocolate frog cards. Feel free to collect and trade."

            "Fine time for a meeting then, isn't it?" said a voice. Ginny jumped, whirling to see Tamison, who had appeared noiselessly a few feet behind her.

            She took a step back from the unfamiliar faces, but stopped and calmed considerably when an unmistakable head of bushy brown hair became visible to them all. 

            Hermione Granger stepped out timidly from among the three tall figures, and Harry noticed her giving them rather wary glances before moving forward to greet her assembled friends.

            Hermione seemed to believe greeting hugs were the order of the evening, and no one said anything more substantial than "It's good to see you" until she had gotten all three of them.

            "I've been going spare over all of you," she confessed somewhat sheepishly. "It's dreadful, the way the post is, wondering whether everyone is really okay or simply not able to tell the truth. Maybe I'm just becoming paranoid," she said, smiling wanly.

            "I'd call it healthy apprehension," Teira offered reassuringly. "If you aren't worried, it just means you don't really care."

            Hermione nodded, but didn't look directly at the other woman. "So, what have the three of you been doing this summer?" she asked, smiling more naturally as she looked back to Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

            It was refreshing how, after writing letters full of nothing but the most inane small talk all summer, they could finally relay in full the happenings during their vacation so far. It seemed that all of them had been erring on the side of caution, and the letters that they shared had barely scratched the surface of holiday events. It seemed that Harry was the only one who didn't have any new stories to tell: his time at the Dursleys' had been so surpassingly dull that only the occurrences of the current evening seemed worth retelling, and he knew those events would be addressed in due time. The other three had plenty of exciting new tales, though, and Harry was more than content to sit down around the Burrow's kitchen table listening to his friends' stories. He learned about Hermione's trip to Japan with her parents for a medical conference (which explained the rather lengthy delivery times of Hedwig for the first week of July) and he was particularly excited to hear about the progress of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley from Ron and Ginny. They had both spent a great deal of time there over the summer, helping Fred and George to get their shop running full-tilt. They didn't say anything specifically, but Harry got the distinct impression that secondhand robes would not be the order of the day when the time came to collect supplies for Hogwarts.

            Harry also developed a nagging sense that the two Weasley siblings were holding back something big: a lot of quickly opened and shut mouths and shared glances told him that there was at least one significant story that he wasn't being told.

            It was about an hour after Hermione had arrived that they heard the first loud pop of a new arrival. Mrs. Weasley bustled into the kitchen, looking more than a little frazzled, but she brightened considerably when she saw Harry and Hermione. Even though she greeted them very warmly and repeatedly said how glad she was to see them, Harry again got the nagging sense of what was beginning to seem a great Weasley family secret. Mrs. Weasley scrambled around the house anxiously, starting and then immediately abandoning a dozen tasks, and often muttering under her breath and stopping to count things off on her fingers. Harry might have been worried, but Ron and Ginny didn't seem the least bit concerned by her behavior; indeed, they appeared slightly amused by it, as if they were used to such flighty antics. He shared a confused look with Hermione though, and was somewhat relieved to know that he wasn't the only one not in on the joke, or whatever was going on.

            A steady stream of new arrivals followed over the next half-hour, until Harry was beginning to wonder if the Burrow would be big enough to hold them all. Mr. Weasley arrived in a group with the familiar faces of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks, who was currently sporting long hair streaked with all the colors of the rainbow. Mad-Eye Moody plodded in with Remus Lupin, who was looking more thin and haggard than ever, though his eyes were still alight with life and he had a ready smile for his former students.

            It was then that Tamison, Teira, and Ayralin reappeared as well. They kept to themselves, slightly apart from the growing crowd, but mingled easily whenever someone approached them. Lupin in particular spent a good while talking with the three mysterious strangers.

            Fred and George arrived with a bang – literally. As Ron explained afterwards, the twins had begun using, on occasion, a personalized form of Apparition. It produced a thick cloud of sweet-smelling smoke and a booming voice that announced their arrival with "Messrs. Fred and George Weasley, proprietors of practical needs for practical pranks and all products pretentious!" Mrs. Weasley complained halfheartedly that they were still using far too much smoke, but the crowd had gotten a good laugh from the gaudy entrance. 

            "We don't like the last word," Fred explained about their introduction, "but there's not a word for 'funny' that starts with a P… and who actually knows what pretentious means, anyway?" No one was surprised when Hermione started to give the textbook definition before realizing that she'd been duped, and she joined them in the ensuing laughter.

            Harry was a bit surprised to see Mundungus Fletcher arrive, knowing that he and Mrs. Weasley were not on the best of terms, but had been less keen to wonder about it and more intent to greet the two people who had arrived with him: Charlie Weasley, who Harry hadn't talked to since the Quidditch World Cup, and Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper and Care of Magical Creatures instructor. 

            Harry could barely hear the sound of the last arrivals over the hum of conversation, but Mrs. Weasley called over the noise, "Ah, last but certainly not least!"

            Harry looked up and saw Albus Dumbledore stride into the room, but then watched as Mrs. Weasley bustled right past him. She returned, ushering the final two arrivals: the eldest son of the Weasley family, Bill, and someone Harry had not seen for a while but could not have mistaken for anyone. Arm in arm with Bill was the unforgettable Fleur Delacour.

            The strangest thing happened then, as all the gathered friends, minus the suddenly very confused pair of Harry and Hermione, broke out in applause. Harry turned his head to see Ron, who was regarding him with a smile. "I didn't know Fleur had joined the Order," Harry, for lack of anything better to say, called over the noise.

            "Oh, well, yeah, she has, but that's not what this meeting is about," Ron replied, grinning ear to ear and obviously unable to contain himself any more. "We're here to work on something else… a wedding!"

                                                                                                                             -- --- --

            Ron's statement put a whole new face on the evening for Harry. He hadn't given it too much thought, but had simply assumed from the outset that the meeting was going to be some grand council of war for the Order of the Phoenix. His initial reaction was to turn to Hermione, who had joined in the applause, and say, somewhat confusedly, "Is it really a good idea to have a wedding in the middle of a war with Voldemort?" 

            She examined him carefully for a moment before saying, "Harry… I think the real reason for this meeting is to help everyone get out of that mindset."

            He looked at her quizzically, and she bit her bottom lip, a habit that told Harry she was choosing her next words carefully.

            "We're here to stop ourselves from believing that everything in our lives has to revolve around Voldemort in order to beat him," she explained. Hermione paused again and looked at him very intently. "Remembering what we're fighting for is just as important as fighting for it."

            Harry's expression changed from confused to thoughtful, and the sounds around him seemed to become muffled as Hermione's words sunk in. He took a look around, seeing all the familiar faces, and realizing that not a one of them looked worried, distracted, or afraid, and there was no one unsmiling. Harry realized then that this was a meeting to remember friendship, to spend an evening amongst friends and family, discussing nothing more consequential than a guest list, nothing graver than a menu, and where the greatest implications of a decision would be whether or not they would have enough butterbeer.

            Harry smiled with the rest, and joined in with the continuing applause. 

            Five minutes later, he had forgotten about Voldemort, making room in his head for tales of Mundungus Fletcher's most recent not-entirely-legal acquisitions for the Weasley twins' experiments. There was a harrowing account of near-misses in the dank reaches of Knockturn Alley, with Mundungus evading the grasping, slimy fingers of the underworld to make it out with a vial of gillyweed seed, the most pivotal ingredient in the twins' most recent invention: Waterlogging Wonders. They were like party crackers, but instead of popping out a cloud of ribbons and eccentric trinkets, they exploded with a flood of water (breathable, thanks to the seeds) that turned a room into an aquarium. They had even managed to make it so the water filled the room in question without destroying it, a fact that undoubtedly saved the duo's lives when they had first let off a Wonder in Mrs. Weasley's presence.

            Five minutes later, Harry had forgotten about Death Eaters, in order to hear Ginny's story of how Mrs. Weasley had learned of the engagement. Bill had proposed in secret more than seven months earlier, at New Year's, but he and Fleur had planned on eloping until, in comically suspicious circumstances, he had "accidentally" let the news slip to Ginny, who had "accidentally" let it slip to Mrs. Weasley. Harry guessed that Bill, a Weasley through and through, hadn't been as keen to keep his family in the dark as Fleur perhaps had.

            Five minutes later, he had forgotten about forbidden curses and dementors. He heard about Charlie's one-on-one encounter with a majestic Taiwanese Trickster, a cunning dragon that had evaded his attempts to track it for nearly three weeks before the springing of an ingenious trap that even the most cunning of the living dragon breeds had been helpless against. He heard of Hagrid's efforts to obtain a sphinx for his Care of Magical Creatures class, where the poor half-giant had failed the monster's riddle, been captured and brought back to the creature's pride… and had subsequently convinced the entire family of six amazingly magical beasts to come back with him to Hogwarts for the entire year!

            As he sat there, surrounded by his closest friends from the world he truly called home, Harry was poignantly struck by how much Sirius would have loved to be there, laughing and telling tall tales of his own. But for the first time, he did not feel the slightest trace of guilt or sadness. Sirius would have loved to be there, of course, but he knew that Sirius would have been devastated to know that Harry was not allowing himself to have fun and experience the happy times available to him, and instead dwelling on what he had lost. As Harry looked around the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the Burrow, he knew that a small piece of Sirius lived on in each and every story, in every laugh, and in every heart in the room. He was no longer with them, but he would never be forgotten… and so, he would never truly be gone. 

            It was then that Harry finally understood the words of Nearly Headless Nick at the end of his fifth year, when he had chased the ghost down, desperate with hope that perhaps Sirius, too, had returned as a ghost. "Wizards can leave an imprint of themselves upon the earth, to walk palely where their living selves once trod. But very few wizards choose that path," Nick had sadly explained.

            Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington and the few other ancient witches and wizards who floated through the halls and walls of Hogwarts had chosen to leave their imprints as specters, but Sirius Black had left behind a different legacy: the memories and love of family and friends, the only true life eternal upon the mortal plane.

                                                                                                                           -- --- --

            The meeting ended up being a party. Planning the wedding had been more an excuse than an actual reason; even in the wizarding world, such matters were best left to smaller counsel. Either way, it was set to go on well into the night, and no one seemed very anxious about calling an end to the festivities.

            Harry felt as if he were drawing from an endless reserve of energy, and jokingly thought that his total lack of activity for a month at the Dursleys' was allowing him to make up for lost time. The only clock in the house that Harry knew of didn't show the time, but he could not have cared less. Maybe if he didn't actually see the time passing, the fun would never have to end.

            It did, however, as all good things do. Though afterwards, Harry guessed that everyone would have wished for a different catalyst.

            The sky outside was dark, lit only by the unfettered field of stars and a new moon, and the gathering had been going strong for several hours when the front door opened. Harry wasn't sure who else could show up, especially so late. He was just about to ask Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who were standing near him, if they had been expecting anyone else, when those closest to the door fell silent. It didn't make much of a dent in the noise, until the next closest people looked and quieted as well, then on through the entire house like a set of dominoes, until the Burrow had gone from the pleasant buzz of conversation to the hush of a graveyard in near-record time.

            Harry's brow furrowed and he stood on his tiptoes, but he couldn't quite see the newcomer. He looked at Ron, who was nearby and was tall enough to see over the crowd. He wore a look of wide-eyed surprise, which shifted almost instantly to a gaze so spiteful that Harry thought for a second that Draco Malfoy must have just walked into the Weasleys' home.

            By some common impulse, the crowd slowly parted between the door and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, giving Harry his first view of the newcomer. As soon as he recognized him, a small part of Harry registered it as odd to think of who he saw as an unexpected guest, but another part of him could now sympathize with Ron's look of disdain.

            Percy Weasley was standing in the doorway.

            Judging by the reactions of the crowd, and the looks on the faces of the Weasleys, which varied from stricken to angry, their prodigal son had not redeemed himself since his horrible words a year ago. Percy had all but disowned his family, saying that he had been struggling against his father's reputation ever since he had joined the Ministry of Magic, that his parents and Dumbledore were betraying the Ministry, and that he knew where his loyalties lay. Harry had always known Percy to be very ambitious, but he had also thought that there was nothing more important to a Weasley than family. Percy was obviously an exception.

            The air of the Burrow had grown so thick with tension that Harry could have hit it with a Reductor Curse. No one seemed willing to speak.

            Percy was looking very nervous behind his horn-rimmed glasses, and the hem of his robes was shifting in a manner that implied significant foot-shuffling. The Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic looked as uncomfortable as Harry had ever seen him. Percy cleared his throat, a sound that seemed to rumble through the living room like thunder, and finally began, very quietly, "I'd heard from the Min… I'd heard that you've been engaged, Bill," he said to his oldest brother. "I thought I should… I wanted to… offer my congratulations."

            "Big of you," one of the twins, Harry wasn't sure which, said coldly.

            Percy glanced in the direction of the reply and his eyes flashed briefly, but he quickly looked at the floor. His knuckles grew white around the handle of his briefcase.

            "Thanks," Bill managed, stiffly and unsmiling.

            Mrs. Weasley, who was clutching Mr. Weasley's arm very tightly with one hand and holding the other over her mouth, whispered, "Percy…"

            Percy glanced around and exhaled heavily. He had turned back towards the door when Ginny, who was the closest to their estranged sibling, stepped forward and said, in a voice low and unreadable, "Is that all you can say?"

            Percy stopped halfway to the door. He looked over his shoulder left and right, looking at all the people in the room except, it seemed, those he was related to. The new pause began to stretch.

            Harry glanced to his side at Ron, and recognized the reddening face, crimson ears, and angry expression. He tried to move closer to restrain his friend, and saw Hermione doing the same thing on the other side, but it was too late.

            "You bloody great git!" Ron exploded. "You think you can just stroll in here, act the well-wisher, and walk straight out again? After what you said!?"

            Percy's shoulders jerked and he wheeled around, his bespectacled eyes blazing. But Ron was already continuing, his outburst having frozen everyone in place.

            "You insulted us! You betrayed your family! You ran off with Fudge! Everyone else, all of us here," he swung an arm around, nearly braining Moody, and knocking over a potted plant with a crash that no one noticed, "this 'dangerous crowd', these 'petty criminals', spent a year fighting against You-Know-Who before your precious little minister could get his head far enough out of his arse to see what was right in front of his nose!"

            Percy was obviously bristling, and opened his mouth to reply, but then Ron began stalking towards him slowly.

            "I remember the letter you sent me last year," Ron hissed, his voice now low and suddenly very dangerous. "I burned it, but what you said in it was burned into me. Family ties would blind me to mum and dad's misguided beliefs and actions, eh? You sincerely hoped that we would realize how mistaken we were and you'd be ready to accept a 'full apology'?" he growled the last two words with a horrible sneer. When he began again, he was roaring even louder than before. "YOU'RE SO BLOODY FULL OF YOURSELF THAT YOU HAVEN'T EVEN BOTHERED TO _ADMIT_ THAT YOU WERE WRONG!"

            Percy was taken aback and staring wide-eyed at Ron, perhaps in the shock of remembrance of what he had said. Harry had forgotten all about the letter his friend had received the night after his first Quidditch practice, the night Sirius had narrowly escaped Dolores Umbridge's grasping fingers in the Gryffindor common room fireplace. But Ron's words brought the memories back as keenly as if he were reading the letter again.

            The youngest Weasley boy, his face and neck so red with rage that his hair looked blonde by comparison, was now dangerously close to Percy. He stopped a few steps short, and time seemed to come to an utter halt. No one dared to breathe.

            Quick as lightning, Ron thrust a hand into his pocket and brought out his wand, but Ayralin, standing nearby, was even faster. In a heartbeat, he had jumped forward, knocked Ron's wand out of his hand with a quick chop to the wrist, and secured the boy's arms behind him, single-handedly locking them with the elbows touching at the small of his back. His other arm was around Ron's chest, restraining him. Ron was struggling madly; the sudden movement had set him bucking at his brother like an enraged bull, oblivious to all around him.

            Tamison moved forward briskly, brushing around Teira, who was holding a hand over her eyes. Instead of helping Ayralin restrain Ron, though, Tamison closed his eyes, outstretched one arm and placed his splayed fingers on the side of Ron's temple. The boy froze instantly at the touch, and then wilted with a soft groan. Harry heard Mrs. Weasley give a strangled gasp.

            Percy was staring at his younger brother in shock and disbelief, and it seemed that still no one dared to breathe. Dumbledore then moved forward, pushing between Tonks and Hagrid, and knelt at Ron's side, whispering something to Tamison, who nodded and touched the side of the slumped Weasley boy's head again. Ron jerked and shook his head groggily. He saw Percy again and tried to rise, but Dumbledore thrust him back down to the floor and held him there.

           Percy seemed to wake up from his shock then, and his anger had been replaced by a look of complete despondence. His mouth opening and shutting dumbly, he looked around, this time not at the crowd, but at each of his family members.

            Ginny was regarding him with an unreadable expression. Charlie seemed apprehensive. Bill's eyes were narrowed coolly. Fred and George wore looks that said Ron had beaten them to their preferred course of action. Mr. Weasley appeared totally lost and torn, his face a shifting jumble of emotion. Mrs. Weasley still had a hand over her mouth, but her eyes were pleading with desperate tears.

            The loudest voice that didn't speak talked in volumes greater than Ron's shouts: no one had yet openly offered any kind of reprimand or contradiction to what Harry's best friend had said and done.

            "I…" Percy croaked, his eyes jumping around to each of his family members rapidly and repeatedly. "I…" he said again. He screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head, and disappeared with a loud pop.

            The moments after Percy's abrupt departure stretched on longer than the entire evening before them. No one said anything; there was nothing anyone _could_ say. The only sounds were Mrs. Weasley's muffled sobs into Mr. Weasley's chest, and the whirring tick as the hand labeled "Percy" on the grandfather clock swung away from "home".

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*A/N* - I doubt J.K. Rowling would so quickly – not to mention neatly – tie up Harry's acceptance of Sirius' death in book six. In fact, I would probably be a little disappointed if she did. But while I'm attempting to channel her creativity and style, I've no illusions about my ability to forecast the true events she has in store. So I will adapt where it is necessary for my own envisioned plot, and this was one of those points. I have plans for this particular story thread later on, which makes a tidy little suture of a resolution necessary for the time being. I couldn't very well ignore it, after all.

Percy's story arc, on the other hand, _will_ parallel one of the possibilities I've dredged from between the lines of book five. And if I could be any more vague than that, I'd be a Vorlon.

Reviews are always greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter Three: The Last of their Kind

**                                                                                              CHAPTER THREE -** **THE LAST OF THEIR KIND**

            For a long time, Harry couldn't think of anything to say. But that didn't matter, because he wasn't sure he could even talk if he had to. He went to Ron, who was still sitting on the floor repeatedly running a hand through his hair, dropping the hand to his side, and then running it through his hair again. Harry knelt at his friend's side and placed a hand on his shoulder, a move that he wasn't sure whether to classify as reassuring or not. He felt more than saw Hermione come up beside him.

            Ron had always been among the most hot-headed of the Weasleys, a trait his brothers and even his father, occasionally, shared. His outburst tonight hadn't been only his anger, though. All the Weasleys, Harry knew, had been hurt horribly by what Percy had said. A small part of Harry admitted though, that Percy had probably been here to do exactly what Ron was most furious about him _not _doing: apologizing. Harry knew firsthand how hard it could be to form the word "sorry" through a wall of pride. But Percy's inner struggle had lasted a split-second longer than the fuse of Ron's temper. Harry didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing, yet… If Ron hadn't said what he had, he and probably the rest of the Weasleys would have continued living with that anger unexpressed and unresolved.

            It had been said, now, and there was nothing to change that. No Memory Charms would fix these injuries, but sometimes bad blood had to be bled before a wound could truly heal.

           Dumbledore seemed to be thinking along the same lines. The old headmaster (and truly old he looked, here and now) patted Ron on his free shoulder. "It had to be said," he whispered. "No matter how painful now, it had to be said," he repeated loudly.

           He rose wearily. "We came here tonight to forget about our struggles," he sighed. "But though we escaped for a time, as always in life our troubles have ways of finding us when we least expect them." He removed the half-moon spectacles from his nose and polished them with his robes. When he replaced them, he was standing straighter, years seemed to melt from his face, and his voice was serenely strong once more. "Percy knows what he must do," he said, looking at each of the Weasleys intently, meeting their eyes. "He made the first step tonight, and Ron took the painful second that will make the path, in the end, much easier to tread. Your brother, your son, knows what he must do. Give him time; he needs it, just as you do."

            It was perhaps a testament to the closeness of all those gathered that Dumbledore said what he did in the presence of everyone. However, that thought only puzzled Harry all the more when his eyes found the three strangers amongst them. Tamison – who was still kneeling near Ron – Teira, and Ayralin were all looking at Dumbledore. The headmaster looked down and saw Harry surveying the three with a look that was probably traced with more than a little suspicion. Harry met the headmaster's eyes, and those two blue orbs seemed to look right through him as they always did. Something in the back of Harry's mind twinged faintly, but the feeling passed quickly. 

            Dumbledore looked back to the gathering. "We might have wished for a better ending, but…" he shrugged helplessly.

            As the crowd accepted the cue and began to say their farewells, Dumbledore bent down and said to Harry, "I believe I owe you another talk. I'll be in the kitchen when things have settled down." He glanced and nodded fractionally to Hermione and Ron, gave Tamison a pointed look, and walked away. The three enigmatic newcomers rose and followed him.

            Everyone took the time on the way out to pat each of the Weasleys on the back. Few seemed to be able to think of anything to say, though, aside from Hagrid. He bent down low to whisper something to Mr. Weasley, who nodded and managed a faint smile.

            The trio of friends stayed where they were, as Ron didn't seem motivated to get up off the floor, and neither of the others was anxious to press him, even so slightly. By the time Lupin, who was the last to take his leave, had closed the door behind him, Ron seemed to have recovered a bit. He looked around. Charlie was in a chair next to the fireplace, a book in his lap that he probably wouldn't turn a page in all night. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were together on a couch, talking quietly, or at least Mr. Weasley was. Mrs. Weasley seemed utterly disconsolate at the moment, and was staring blankly at her hands in her lap. Bill had left, somewhat reluctantly, with Fleur. Fred and George had Apparated out as well, saying something about work that needed to be done at the store, which Harry speculated to entail blowing some things into very small pieces. Ginny had walked over and was looking at Harry, Hermione, and Ron expectantly.

            The youngest Weasley boy sighed heavily and rose. He was still close to fuming over the incident with Percy, but he looked at least reasonably calm at the moment. "We'd better go see what Dumbledore's on about," he said, and the four of them headed into the kitchen.

            Professor Dumbledore was sitting at the table with a mug of hot chocolate cradled in his hands. Tamison and Teira were sitting to either side of him, and Ayralin was leaning against the counter, arms crossed and frowning slightly (though that simply seemed to be his default expression; a sober counterbalance to Tamison's omnipresent, lighthearted smile).

            "I presume the four of you have been introduced?" Dumbledore asked, seeming thoroughly unsurprised by Ginny's presence. They all nodded as they took seats around the table.

            "Who _are_ you?" said Hermione frankly, looking at the three strangers warily.

            Tamison turned to Dumbledore, who looked back at Hermione. "Miss Granger, in your incomparable studies, have you ever come across references to a group typically referred to as the arbiters?" he asked.

            Hermione's brow furrowed and she bit her bottom lip, her eyes moving back and forth unfocusedly as if reading her own memories like a book. She was silent for a long moment, which had Harry curious. Usually, Hermione was able to recall any fact, no matter how insignificant, almost instantly. It was a trait he had come to both greatly appreciate and rely on.

            "A few, but…" she trailed off uncertainly, as if doubting not her knowledge, but whether Dumbledore could mean what she thought he meant.

            "By any chance, have you read _The Accounts of Eldarion_?"

            Her eyes lit up in recognition, but she frowned and said, "I wanted to check that out two years ago. I had seen it mentioned in books that I was using for research on house-elves for S.P.E.W., but it was in the Restricted Section."

            Both Tamison and Dumbledore raised eyebrows at that; Tamison when Hermione had mentioned house-elves, and Dumbledore when Hermione said the book in question was restricted. The former looked at Teira and Ayralin, and the three of them seemed to be trying to hide smiles. Dumbledore coughed and said, "If that's the case, I believe Madam Pince may have become somewhat… overzealous… in her designation of restricted materials. The book is incredibly old, no doubt, but it is nothing more dangerous than an historical account."

            "I would have gotten a signature to check it out," Hermione explained, "but it wasn't for a class, so I planned to wait and check it out right after the end of term. But, well…" she trailed off, and Harry knew why. Two years ago, the end of term had been rather thoroughly disturbed by the events surrounding the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament.

            Dumbledore nodded. "No matter. _The_ _Accounts_ detail a rather disappointingly neglected piece of magical history: a time long before Hogwarts, before even Merlin had begun to effectively organize wizard-kind; a time when magic was an altogether different thing. I know more of it than perhaps anyone alive, thanks entirely to these three," he said, indicating the trio of strangers.

            Harry frowned. "So they're… historians?"

            Dumbledore cocked his head to one side and tugged his beard thoughtfully. "In a sense, you could call them that. They are the best sources one will find on history, but their knowledge is not scholarly in essence. It is firsthand."

            Harry blinked. Hermione gasped. 

            "But… But…" she stammered, "You can't…" Her eyes went wide as saucers, staring at Tamison, Ayralin, and Teira with a face that looked like an extremely exaggerated impression of Luna Lovegood. "You're myth!"

            Tamison smiled and looked down, patting himself on the chest as if to ensure he were solid. "No, I don't believe so, actually." He looked at Ayralin and Teira, who were both smiling as well.

            "But the other books, the ones on house-elves… they talked, but… it always said…" Hermione seemed shocked beyond coherent speech. Harry simply felt left behind.

            "Back up a tick," Ron said, "Firsthand knowledge of history? Are you trying to tell us that these blokes have lived since before _Merlin_?" Dumbledore nodded. "But…" Ron frowned and shook his head. "Harry told us that you said the Philosopher's Stone was destroyed. There's not another one, is there?"

            "No," Dumbledore assured him. "There is no Philosopher's Stone other than the one my friend Nicholas Flamel created, which has since been destroyed, I assure you. There is no magic, potion, or device that has otherwise been devised that is capable of producing the same effects. 

            "You see, the three persons before you are not mortal. Indeed, they are not even human."

            It was Ron's turn to let the implications sink in. Hermione half-stumbled to a chair and sat down weakly, one hand in her hair as if she feared her brain might try and leap out the side of her head. Harry felt confused and surprised, definitely, but she seemed to be taking this especially hard, which implied that, as usual, she knew something more about the matter at hand than Ron or Harry.

            "You know, I enjoy dramatic silences as much as the next bloke," Tamison said lightly, "but this is a bit ridiculous."

            Harry smiled despite himself, and Hermione visibly regained her composure as well.

            "It appears that Miss Granger has at least some knowledge of the legends in question," Dumbledore continued, taking Tamison's advice and speaking with a great deal less gravity, "but I'll fill you all in on it in greater detail." He cleared his throat and pushed his spectacles farther up on his crooked nose.

            "Throughout time, there has been a race of immortal beings that has lived among humans. They possess knowledge of a magic similar to our own, but at a level far more advanced, perhaps even beyond what wizards are capable of accomplishing. For the most part, they spent their time amongst Muggles, who are far more easily duped by their disguises."

            "You mean like the illusions my relatives saw?" Harry asked.

            "Correct," Tamison replied. "Our race has had long experience in developing an effective camouflage. It is an illusory appearance that, instead of us simply dictating a façade such as a metamorph- or animagus, allows those viewing us to see what they want to see. Muggles are almost totally incapable of piercing the illusion, at least without some kind of mistake on our part that invalidates the appearance. Even on rare occasions when the enchantment is broken, Muggles often chalk up what appears to be a brief fluctuation of our image to a trick of the light or some such.

            "Wizards are less susceptible to the enchantment, a fact that, despite long study, we are only partially able to counteract. We are usually able to conceal only the most prominent of our features, which is why we commonly dress in wizard's clothing." He smirked sidelong at Ayralin and Teira. "Case in point…"

            All three of them closed their eyes and passed hands in front of their faces. To Harry, they appeared to shimmer very briefly, but were otherwise unchanged. However, to his side, Ron and Ginny gasped.

            "Blimey," Ron said, looking at the three wide-eyed. Ginny was gawking as well, especially at Tamison, her mouth hanging open slightly.

            "I don't get it," Harry said, frowning.

            "Neither do I," Hermione seconded. "I don't see anything different."

            Ron looked at them incredulously. "What do you mean you two don't see anything different? They looked like normal wizards a second ago, now they're like… like…" he trailed off helplessly.

            "A few wizards can see us as we are, no matter the enchantment," Teira explained. She looked at Harry and Hermione with a soft, approving smile. "The two of you have eyes that seek the truth."

            Ron suddenly snapped his fingers. "I know what you remind me of!" he said excitedly. "Veela!"

            Harry thought about it for a moment. He could see where Ron was coming from, but didn't think the similarities were all that close. At the Quidditch World Cup, Veela had made his mind go pleasantly blank and content (not to mention implanted a strong desire to root for Bulgaria), but though he hadn't thought too much of it in the thrill of the match, he had since experienced the same feelings, the same compulsion, the same _wrongness_, from the Imperius Curse. The first sight of Tamison and especially Teira in the Dursleys' living room had been striking, and they were very physically beautiful, but they didn't emit the kind of pervasive, almost corrupting, aura that Veela did.

            The three of them did not seem pleased by the comparison, either. "Veela are related to us. _Very_ distantly," Ayralin said stiffly, "but they are a race of wights, simple creatures of stark emotion."

            "We understand your thoughts," Tamison explained quickly, "but we are not proud of the similarity."

            "You seemed quite pleased by it earlier this evening," Hermione said accusingly.

            Harry stared at her, shocked at her blunt words. She was glaring openly at the three strangers.

            Ayralin narrowed his eyes at his two companions. "You didn't," he said in disbelief.

            Tamison and Teira frowned uncomfortably.

            "Those buffoons the Dursleys were one thing," Ayralin said sharply. "But by all accounts from Dumbledore I would think it should have been totally unnecessary for the Grangers."

            "What are you talking about?" Harry asked. Hermione's simmering anger seemed to be infectious, and he struggled to keep his voice calm.

            "Another piece of innate magic," Teira said uneasily, "that we have used to maintain our secrecy. You noticed it," she nodded to Harry. "We are able to influence the emotions of Muggles, a skill that is effective at redirecting suspicion or confusion. Dumbledore warned us that your relatives would not be amenable to our presence, so we decided to smooth things over by giving them a rather large dose of… pleasantness."

            Harry nodded in understanding. So that was what had made the Dursleys act so strangely.

            "So that's what you did to my parents?" Hermione asked. Her anger had faded, but was replaced with something that sounded like disappointment, which only seemed to intensify Teira and Tamison's discomfort.

            "It was my suggestion," Tamison said apologetically. "I wanted to be in and out of your house quickly; we were already running late. That's no excuse," he added quickly, "but for what it's worth, I'm very sorry."

            Hermione sighed and nodded. "It's all right. It just worried me, to see my parents acting so laid back and unconcerned. It was almost as though they didn't care that I was leaving."

            "I can assure you, that was not the case," Teira said, offering a reassuring smile.

            "That's the last time _I_ do all the packing," Ayralin interjected sternly, but the edges of his mouth were tugging upwards.

            "I trust you'll send an owl to the Grangers, my friend," Dumbledore said, looking over the tops of his half-moon glasses at Tamison, who smiled sheepishly, like a student who had been caught misbehaving, and nodded. "Now, where was I…?" Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Ah, yes.

            "As you now well know, the arbiters have developed many skills and gained long experience with concealing their presence from the rest of the world. So well have they disguised themselves, mysteries and legends surrounding their existence did not exist in significant consciousness until a series of events in the middle portion of this century.

            "They were content to remain as essentially unseen observers, hence the common designation of their race as arbiters in legend. However, in the 1930s and 40s, an Austrian squib came to power in the Muggle government of Germany, in no small part due to the assistance of the Dark wizard Grindelwald," said Dumbledore, his voice growing grave once more. "The squib's reign is infamous in its own right in Muggle history, but there are reaches of Grindelwald's influence even few wizards know of. Because of the effectiveness of the arbiters' secrecy, it was of course unknown to us that Grindelwald and the squib had come across knowledge of the truth of their existence. Indeed, few even knew there was any truth to discover. After being flatly rebuffed in attempts to gain the immortal's knowledge, Grindelwald began carrying out a little-known genocide, with help from Muggle lackeys. Personally overseen by the Dark wizard himself, the purges were more brutal and coldly efficient than even the worst of their counterparts in the Muggle world. Even so, they went unnoticed in the long litany of other atrocities attributed to the reign of Adolf Hitler," Dumbledore said, wearing an uncharacteristic scowl.

            "It was not until my independent investigations revealed enough collusion between Grindelwald and Hitler that I was able to invoke the International Confederation of Wizards Statute of Secrecy. It finally prompted the Confederation into action, and my defeat of Grindelwald early in 1945 in great part led to my worldwide recognition and notoriety." Dumbledore's voice had grown strangely bitter. "At the time, even I didn't know the horrors our delay had allowed to take place. I had infrequent contact with a few acquaintances within the arbiters, and had heard in passing of Grindelwald's attempt to gain their knowledge. I did not learn of the mass murder of essentially the entire race until two years after I defeated the Dark wizard." Dumbledore sighed heavily and massaged his temple. "And despite their sacrifices, the immortals were still virtual unknowns to the wizarding and Muggle worlds alike."

            "Wait a second," said Ron. "If they're immortal, how could all that happen? How could they just kill them all?"

            "Perhaps the word 'immortal' is a bit of a misnomer," Ayralin explained somberly. "But it is the closest word you have. We do not age, and thus we never die naturally, but our bodies can be destroyed by disease or violence, among other things."

            Ron nodded solemnly in understanding.

            "In the 1950s," Dumbledore continued, his voice back closer to normal, "a Muggle scholar of great renown, who was also a chief liaison to the Ministry of Magic, published what is perhaps the first widespread reference to the arbiters in either society. His story was conjecture and imagination for the most part, based on scattered wizarding myths. However, he had somehow stumbled upon _The_ _Accounts of Eldarion_, and therein thetrue name, language, and only factual accounts of the arbiter race, and used its reference in his work. Even then, the literature inspired not the revelation of the race, but instead created an entirely new breed of fantasy, in both Muggle and wizard consciences." Dumbledore's voice had become eager, almost excited. "The subtlety of it all is very difficult to explain, but those stories caused wizards to look back closely on their own history, and find the scattered and vague references to ageless and wise observers, intensely magical… and utterly unbelievable. That is how the current legends of the arbiters came about."

            "We had a lot of practice at blending in, and had become very good at it," said Tamison. "But it wasn't until what we feared was the exposure of our society had turned into the formation of a new genre of fiction that we knew how good we really were." He seemed to find the whole ordeal quite amusing.

            "So you really exist," Hermione whispered, smiling as though she'd learned the answer to a very difficult and obscure rune in Arithmancy. "But you were so good at hiding that they made a fantasy out of your reality."

            "Quite," Ayralin confirmed. "It's more than a little interesting, actually, to see all the different versions and offshoots of the legends that have popped up, and how close to or far off the mark some of them end up."

            "But…" Ron began, licking his lips nervously. "All that with Grindelwald… your entire race… doesn't that, you know, bother you?"

            Ayralin smiled sadly, but his voice was oddly calm as he replied, "It is not something you can relate to easily, I'm sure. I suppose it requires our unique brand of objectivity. When you have lived for an eternity, devoting your life to watching humans, a race that lives with such brilliance, and yet invariably dims so rapidly, you begin to think in parallels of that fate. You never desire the end to existence, of course, but you wonder when the crescendo of vitality that signals the inevitable fade will come.

            "As such, many of us simply saw Grindelwald as the end of our time of brightness. We do not possess the foresight of the Centaurs – our love of the stars is a much different matter – so we did not know when our time would come, we simply assumed that it eventually would." Ayralin shrugged. There was no sadness, no bitterness in his tone. The only thing Harry could detect was perhaps a small bit of resignation.

            There was an awkward silence, filled with a looming question that no one could bring themselves to ask.

            "You lot are too polite to ask for the details," Tamison said lightly, though he had more than enough decency not to smile, "so I'll just go ahead and tell you. Before Grindelwald, there were perhaps a few thousand of us; immortality notwithstanding, we were never a numerous race. Afterwards, there were about a hundred of us left."

            There was a sharp intake of breath by Hermione and Ginny, Ron's mouth dropped open in horror, and Harry felt his fists clenching.

            "After that, the decline only continued," Ayralin went on, the resignation in his voice now evident. "Those of us who were left, typically the youngest, who didn't understand, and therefore feared, our fate, wasted away from grief. They didn't have the heart to continue what we had done for so long, probably because after Grindelwald, mortality was a much more painful thing to witness.

            "To be perfectly honest, it was probably for the best. Had any of us betrayed our knowledge to Grindelwald and his pet squib, the world we watched over and loved would have been utterly destroyed. Eternal life is a dangerous thing, as much to those who are mortal as those who aren't."

            "How many of you are left now?" Hermione asked quietly.

            Tamison raised his hands, palms upward, and gave a half-waving, half-shrugging motion.

            Hermione gasped once more, and placed a hand over her heart. "You're the only ones? The three of you?"

            They nodded.

            "But you're all here, all of you, risking your lives to help us fight Voldemort – oh, _Ron_ – even though you're the last of your entire race?"

            "Our lives wouldn't be worth much if we didn't use them for anything but hiding in fear of death," Tamison replied matter-of-factly. "We will join the rest of our people eventually, whether it's tomorrow or a thousand years from now. Between then and now, we have to live as though we are still alive, not as though we will eventually die. Our time will come; we need not dwell on it."

            As Harry listened, he had expected to be confused, if not outright lost, by what the three immortals were saying. A few months ago, the thought of death being understood, even accepted willingly, would have been absolutely ridiculous to him. However, he was finding that the resolution and closure he had found with Sirius' death (he was hard pressed to believe that it had happened mere hours before) was helping him understand Tamison, Teira, and Ayralin's sentiments. 

            "To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure." It wasn't until he caught the odd looks from Ron and Ginny that Harry realized he had spoken aloud.

            Dumbledore was smiling at him beneath his long white beard, his eyes sparkling. He himself had relayed those words to Harry five years before. Tamison, Teira, and Ayralin were looking at him as though greatly impressed by his understanding.

            He opened his mouth to say that it was Dumbledore who had said it, not him, but he closed it again. He had heard the words from Dumbledore five years ago, yes, but it was not until now that he had actually known what they meant. Dumbledore had imparted the adage to an eleven-year-old boy, and Harry realized that Dumbledore had not intended for him to understand it; not for the first time, he had simply planted the right expression for wisdom which Harry had since gained on his own.

            "I can't help but wonder… why are you telling us all of this?" Hermione asked. "I mean, you've been around for thousands of years in secret, and now you're revealing it all to the four of us?"

            Tamison chuckled. "The easy answer to that would be, well, since there're only three of us, what's the point in making a big secret of it?" He looked down and studied his hands for a moment, then looked up and regarded the young, bushy-haired girl with the most serious expression Harry had yet seen him wear. "But the _real_ answer is that we've realized it's time to stop living so foolishly. We spent those thousands of years placing ourselves on a pedestal, thinking we were a race above all others, watching the world pass us by like demigods. We've opened our eyes and realized that we aren't this world's overseers; we are a part of it, just as much as humans, and it's time we started acting like it."

            After a long, contemplative pause, Dumbledore brought out his twelve-handed pocketwatch and said, "Oh, dear, the time has quite passed us by." Harry couldn't see what time it told, but his body was beginning to insist clearly enough that it was too late to be awake. "You collected all of Harry and Hermione's belongings?" he asked Ayralin.

            "Right here," he nodded, bringing out the small string-tied pouch and tossing it to Dumbledore. The headmaster caught it and loosened the string. Harry had seen a magical container once before: the seven-lock trunk Mad-Eye Moody owned. He looked at it curiously.

            "Ooh," Hermione breathed. "Is that a Ceaseless Sack?"

            "It is indeed," confirmed Tamison, looking extremely impressed with Hermione. "Good lord, Dumbledore, have you minted this girl's diploma yet?" 

            "Another two years yet. We might need as long to special-order one large enough," he said, making Hermione blush as red as a Gryffindor Quidditch robe.

            Dumbledore placed the bag on the kitchen table, waved his wand at it, and called "_Deconvaso__!_" A whirlwind of fine dust leapt out of the bag and swirled past them, disappearing out of sight up the stairs. "That should do the trick. You're both unpacked," he said to Harry and Hermione.

            "Well, I do believe I am in need of a bit of beauty sleep," Dumbledore announced. "Good night to you all."

            As everyone rose, stretching tired limbs, Ginny gasped, "Oh!" as if remembering something. "I'm pretty sure I know what scholar Professor Dumbledore was talking about, the one that first revealed the name of your race," she said. "But, are you… really…?" she trailed off hopefully, as if needing to hear the words themselves straight from the source.

            "Yes," Teira replied, smiling in that soft, indescribably radiant way. She pulled back her long golden hair, revealing a pair of delicately pointed ears. "We are the last of the Elves."

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*A/N* - Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking. "So this is another bloody crossover?", "hopelessly unoriginal", and all that. But if you've gotten this far, just maybe you'll stick around and find out just how I've managed to intertwine the greatest fantasy race into the greatest fantasy series without turning this into one more "Legolas Visits Hogwarts" eye-roller. You should already have noticed that these aren't exactly your typical Tolkien Elves, and I don't intend them to be. JKR has shown a remarkable aptitude for blending our own reality and mystery with the world of magic (missing keys, anyone?), and I am making a game effort to add my own twist of the same nature. I won't go so far as to make any promises about exactly what you'll think of it, but I'll say that what I came up with is definitely one of the best ideas I've ever had. And I _will_ guarantee, with absolute certainty, that it has never been done before. "Originality, he says?" Aye, fancy that.

Of course, now that I've gotten you all lathered up with that feisty first paragraph, I'll need to be sure to get far enough into this story to deliver. Well, if you managed to survive all the endless historical narrative in this chapter to get this far, just maybe I can keep you around for the rest of the adventure. With all this necessary – but inherently and unavoidably boring – dialogue out of the way, I might even be able to keep you awake through it.

Many thanks too all those who have given me reviews!


	4. Chapter Four: OWL Droppings

**                                                                                                     CHAPTER FOUR - O.W.L. DROPPINGS**

When Harry woke up the next morning, he was a little surprised to find that he had gone to sleep at all. The day before had been so eventful, he hadn't even had time to enjoy the fact that he was rid of the Dursleys for another year, and that he would be staying with the Weasleys for quite a while before heading back to Hogwarts. When he realized that, it was almost like waking up to find that Christmas had come two days in a row. He dressed quietly with a smile on his face and left Ron still snoring in his room to head down for breakfast.

            It was still quite early though, judging by the bright glare of the sun shining straight through the kitchen windows. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were at the table, both sipping tall glasses of orange juice, a pitcher of which was still being filled by several oranges that were busy squeezing themselves. 

            "Good morning, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said. She seemed much better off than she had the night before, but Percy's visit was still showing, if the bags under her eyes were any indication.

            "Morning, Harry!" Mr. Weasley called cheerily. "Getting a bright and early start to the day, eh?"

            "Making up for lost time," Harry confirmed, still smiling. He poured a glass of orange juice; the oranges stopped squeezing themselves when he moved the pitcher, and started right back up again when he put it back down.

            "I hope your relatives didn't give you too much trouble this summer," Mr. Weasley chuckled. "If they did, Mad-Eye will never let me live down writing the Muggle Protection Act!"

            "No worries," Harry assured him. "All things considered, it was probably the best they've ever treated me."

            "I wish that were saying something," Mrs. Weasley said, clucking her tongue disapprovingly. "You always leave that dreadful place looking like they've tried to starve you out," she fretted. "The others probably won't be up for a while, but I'd be glad to fix a spot of breakfast if you're hungry."

            "No, I'll be fine 'til later, but thank you," he said, waving her back into her seat. Mrs. Weasley had been halfway to the cupboard before she had even been done asking. She sat back down, looking rather disappointed.

            "You'll have plenty of chances to feed the poor boy later, Molly," Mr. Weasley chuckled, patting her hand gently. "Speaking of which, it will be wonderful to have you around for the next few weeks, Harry," he said, turning around in his chair. "With Fred and George spending so much time in the flat they set up above their shop down in the Alley, the old Burrow always seems a mite empty these days," he said wistfully.

            "I can't thank you enough for letting me stay," Harry said gratefully, pouring himself another glass of orange juice. "You all set the Dursleys straight, but nothing beats being back in the wizarding world."

            "Never you mind," Mrs. Weasley assured him. "Arthur's right, this place just doesn't seem like home without at least a half-dozen people here."

            "Is Hermione here for the summer as well?" Harry asked. The end of the night before was all a blur; he wasn't sure whether she had mentioned if she were staying or not.

            "We're not sure, actually. That was the original idea, but that lot Dumbledore sent to pick her up was supposed to double-check to make sure it was all right with the Grangers. And that, er, didn't go as planned," replied Mr. Weasley, scratching the back of his thinning red hair. "Speaking of which," he said earnestly, leaning forward in his chair as Harry sat down across from him, "what're they like?"

            "Hadn't Dumbledore told you all about them yet?" Harry asked quizzically. He gathered that last night, the four of them had been some of the first to realize the full story behind the three enigmatic new additions to the Light side, but he had assumed Dumbledore would have at least filled in the inner circle of Order about such important new allies as a trio of Elves.

            "He gave us all a bit of information when he introduced them at an Order meeting a few weeks ago," Mr. Weasley explained, "but we only got the 'annotated version', as he put it. To be fair, we were all a bit shocked at the time, and probably too much so to understand the full story, at any rate. They haven't been around much since; Dumbledore seems to be using them for some very sensitive and hush-hush work. I only spoke to them once," he said pensively, "and I barely had time for a 'hello', let alone a good conversation."

            Harry could sympathize; he was still a bit dazed about his own encounter. He was made all the more so because of one of the few happy memories he held from before Hogwarts. What seemed like ages ago, before he had learned he was a wizard, he had found a musty old box crammed into a cubbyhole in his cupboard under the stairs. Inside, he had found several old books. They were the only reading material he had ever seen at the Dursleys', other than magazines and newspapers. Likely, they had forgotten they even owned them. It had proven a lucky break for him, though, as the books provided a delightful entertainment whenever he could risk bringing them out. Harry had guarded those secret possessions more carefully than anything else in the world: at the slightest sound from upstairs, back into the cubby they would go. Eventually, they were even further disguised by an old piece of plywood that Harry had nicked from Uncle Vernon's workbench. (Come to think of it, that plywood had fit rather too perfectly and concealed rather too well when Harry had first used it, scrambling desperately to cover up the cubby when Dudley had come thumping down the stairs for a midnight snack. Another early bit of magic he had never even noticed until now.) He had lost himself in those books; they were his private escape to worlds of dragons and enchanted woods, tales of swords and sorcery and mystical beings. He had always loved best the parts with the Elves, people who were so beautiful and perfect that Harry had hoped more than once they would show up on his doorstep to whisk him away from the Dursleys and Privet Drive.

            With a broadening smile, he realized that very thing had happened.

            "Harry?" Mr. Weasley asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

            "Hm? Oh, sorry," he apologized.

            "No worries. So, what're they really like?" Mr. Weasley was perched on the very edge of his seat.

            "It's tough to explain," Harry replied, pausing thoughtfully. "They're very… familiar. It's almost like you can trust them without even knowing them. If I had learned about them without meeting them, I would have expected them to be very aloof. But they talk with you just like anyone else would, they just seem to… know more, I guess."

            "Hrm, yes," Mr. Weasley nodded. "That's almost exactly what Remus said to me last night. He talked with them quite a bit, you know, really chatted up a storm. He also said they were the first people he's ever met who didn't even flinch when he told them he was a werewolf. In fact, they mentioned that they knew of an improvement to the Wolfsbane potion that might prevent his transformations entirely," he said excitedly.

            "They do? Oh Arthur, that's wonderful!" said Mrs. Weasley. "Oh, I hope it works. Remus has always felt so guilty about the whole affair… it's silly, but I can't say that I blame him."

            "I bet there's tons of other things they'll be able to teach us, too," said Harry.

            "You're right, no doubt, but I wouldn't expect them to take too much time for it, actually," Mr. Weasley mused. "Their experience and knowledge is much better being put straight to use… after all, most of what they know probably takes a few hundred years of practice to get right!" he laughed.

            The glare of the rising sun had subsided to mid-morning glow, and there was the sound of soft footsteps from above them. Hermione came down the stairs. She was wearing a light blue robe over her pajamas, and her hair was tied into a ponytail. "Good morning," she greeted. She seemed a bit surprised when she noticed Harry. "You're up early," she said to him.

            "Hermione's often been the early riser of you lot," Mrs. Weasley explained.

            "I'd swear she never slept at all," Mr. Weasley agreed, "especially in the few weeks at Grimmauld Place before you arrived, Harry."

            Hermione rather hurriedly turned around to pour herself a glass of orange juice.

            "Ginny and Ron won't be far behind. I'd better get to breakfast," Mrs. Weasley said, rising and brandishing her wand. In no time, the kitchen was abuzz with flying pots, pans, and all sorts of food. Harry smiled sheepishly when his stomach growled as soon as the first rasher of bacon began sizzling.

            "Ron best not oversleep," Mr. Weasley chuckled. "Sounds like there won't be much left if he does!"

            Just then, there came the sound of insistent pecking on the wooden frame of the screen door. Harry looked up and saw a dignified-looking post owl fluttering outside. Being closest to the door, Harry rose to hold the door open for the owl to make its delivery.

            "Awfully early for the post, isn't it?" he wondered as the owl swept inside and began circling around the kitchen ceiling.

            "Oh, that can only mean one thing!" Mrs. Weasley said anxiously, looking over her shoulder and nearly losing control of a large, hovering bowl of eggs she was whipping.

            "What does it mean?" Harry asked, his arm moving with Quidditch-honed reflexes to snatch a thick envelope that the owl dropped towards him. It circled twice more, dropping letters to Hermione and Mr. Weasley, then dove, adroitly pilfering a slice of bacon, and swept back out the door.

            "O.W.L. Reports!" Mrs. Weasley said.

            Harry's eyebrows rose as he looked down to see two wax seals on the back of the envelope. There was the familiar Hogwarts crest and also the seal of the Ministry of Magic, with a subtext "Wizarding Examinations Authority" in extremely small letters. Turning it over, he saw the familiar green ink spelling out his name and address – which was listed as _The Kitchen, The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole_ at the moment – in a very officiously formal font.

            "They make sure they're delivered early, so they usually can't be intercepted and tampered with," Mrs. Weasley was saying. "Heavens know we were glad for it when it was time for Fred and George's to be delivered."

            Harry moved to tear open the envelope, trying to slip his finger under the parchment, but he couldn't. He tried more forcefully, digging his fingernails at the edge of the flap, but still he didn't have any luck.

            Mr. Weasley noticed his struggles. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. You'll need to place the end of your wand on each seal in order to break it; another security measure. Supposedly, they're enchanted so only the parent's wand or fingertips could open them."

            "Supposedly?" asked Hermione, pausing with her wand poised just over the back of her envelope.

            Mr. Weasley failed to suppress a smile. "I wouldn't put anything past Fred and George. That, and I think Dumbledore said he'd try and make sure yours and Harry's were special exceptions. He knew the plan was for you to be here by the time they arrived, Hermione. And in your case, Harry, your guardians could, er…"

            "Care less?" Harry offered.

            "Something like that," Mr. Weasley laughed, pulling out his own wand to open what were apparently Ron's scores.

            Harry removed his wand from his back pocket (despite Mad-Eye Moody's warning, there didn't seem to be anyplace better to keep it), and tapped the end against first the Hogwarts, and then the Ministry of Magic seals. Both glowed briefly, and then split neatly along the seam of the envelope. Harry pulled out the letter within and began to read.

**_     Dear Mr. Potter,_**

**_            Enclosed are the officially certified results of your Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations. Please see the attached key for any questions on the scoring and notation system._**

**_            Be sure you do not forget to complete the selection form for your N.E.W.T.-level curriculum. Your course schedule will be collected by your Head of House upon your return to _****_Hogwarts_********_School_****_ of Witchcraft and Wizardry this September 1st._**

**_            On behalf of everyone at the Wizarding Examinations Authority and the Office of Standardized Magical Study, we wish you luck with the remainder of your magical education._**

**_               Yours sincerely,   _**

**_            Griselda Marchbanks_**

**_            Wizarding Examinations Authority_**

**_            Ministry of Magic_**

            Harry put aside the cover letter and the next sheet as well, which was the class schedule selection form. The final piece of parchment was the one he was most anxious about: the O.W.L. results. The first thing he noticed was that grades stopped at D – at least he didn't have to worry about any 'Trolls' on his grade card.

_Key:_

_*       O: Outstanding  -  E: Exceeds Expectations  -  A: Acceptable  -  P: Poor  -  D: Dreadful_

_**     A "Y" signifies that the class may be taken as a part of 6th and 7th year curriculum. Qualification for N.E.W.T.-level classes is at the sole discretion of the professor of the subject. _

_***   Please see the reverse side for a complete explanation of special notations._

**SUBJECT                             GRADE *           O.W.L. CREDIT       N.E.W.T. QUALIFIED **        NOTES *********

Charms                                       E                            Y                                  Y                                  R

History of Magic                          D                            N                                  N

Transfiguration                           E                            Y                                  Y                                  R

Divination                                    D                            N                                  Y

Defense Against the Dark Arts    O                            Y                                  Y                                  T, R

Herbology                                   A                            Y                                  Y

Astronomy                                  P                            N                                  N

Potions                                       E                            Y                                  Y                                  R

Care of Magical Creatures          E                            Y                                  Y

            Harry skimmed the column of scores quickly, and was smiling excitedly at what he read. He was utterly unsurprised, though still a bit guilty, at his failures in Divination and History of Magic, and though he had held out a very small amount of hope about his Astronomy O.W.L., remembering how badly interrupted the practical exam had been by Hagrid's flight from Umbridge was all the explanation he needed. On the other hand, he was elated by his success in Charms and Transfiguration, and a quick glance over confirmed that he had qualified for the N.E.W.T. classes! His hopes of becoming an Auror surged anew… until he remembered the 'E' in Potions. He knew he should have been downright giddy at such a high mark, but Snape had told them in no uncertain terms that anything less than an 'O' would not be accepted for his advanced class.

            That only amplified his surprise when he cast a forlorn look to the third column, only to discover that he had qualified for N.E.W.T. level!

            Harry blinked hard several times, and checked, re-checked, and re-re-checked what he saw. He polished his glasses hurriedly and looked once more. It still took him several more moments to convince himself that he could really be seeing what he was in front of him.

            Hermione, who was still staring nervously at her cover letter, and appeared unable to continue any farther, noticed his shocked expression. "What is it, Harry?" she asked.

            "I got an E in Potions," he said, in a dull, shocked voice.

            "That's wonderful! You really shouldn't be so surprised, you said yourself the tests went really well without Snape hanging over your shoulder," she said happily. "So why the odd face?" she asked, when Harry's expression didn't change.

            "It says I qualified for the N.E.W.T. class," Harry continued, still dumbfounded.

            Hermione's brow knitted as she rose and walked over. She looked at the scores. "Do you think Snape changed his requirements over the summer?" she asked, already hypothesizing for a possible explanation. She knew about the strict requirements for N.E.W.T. Potions just as well as Harry. After all, she had been fretting over her tests for that class even more than usual because of the fact.

            "I doubt that," Harry said sourly. "It's probably a misprint or something."

           "Don't be ridiculous, they wouldn't be so careless with something as important as O.W.L. scores," Hermione chided. She examined the rest of his scores. "You did really well, Harry," she said proudly, "Six O.W.L.s is really quite good, especially since only one is lower than an E."

            "How many did you get?" Harry asked, nodding at the papers still clutched in her hand.

            She gulped and looked nervously at the papers. "I haven't checked yet."

            "Well, go on then," he urged.

            "Oh, I can't! I'm just sure I did awful on all of them!" her hands were beginning to shake slightly.

           Without waiting another second, Harry snatched the papers from her hands. She gasped and tried to take them back, but Harry turned to keep his back to her, and held the score sheet out at arm's length. He ignored her pleas to give back the results as he quickly read.

            When he reached the bottom of the page, he looked at her wide-eyed and breathed, "Merlin's beard, Hermione!" He also stopped playing keep-away, more out of astonishment than anything.     

            "What? What?" She didn't waste any time, and promptly grabbed the papers back, but was still unable to bring herself to look. "Oh, I knew it, I failed them all—" She was interrupted when Harry, by sudden, inexplicable impulse, grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. 

            She looked dumbstruck, and color was rising to her cheeks, as Harry exclaimed, "You got ten Os!"

            Hermione gave an unintelligible little squeak and looked down. She clutched a hand at her chest and seemed to be growing faint as she read. She half-stumbled backwards before Harry led her into a chair, beaming more widely than he had when Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup.

            "Did you really, Hermione?" Mr. Weasley asked, looking up from Ron's scores.

            "That's wonderful, dear!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, once more nearly losing control of her preparations for breakfast.

            "Bill got twelve," Mr. Weasley went on, "but half of his were A's, and the poor boy nearly drove himself mad taking so many classes. He ended up taking only five N.E.W.T. courses, he was so exhausted."

            Hermione seemed unable to reply. She was whispering unintelligibly, her eyes darting all over the parchment in front of her. Harry put an arm around her shoulder and jostled her lightly. "You're absolutely amazing, Hermione. All that hard work really paid off." 

            He looked over at Mr. Weasley. "How did Ron do? If you don't mind saying, of course."

            "Oh, don't be so formal with us, Harry," Mr. Weasley scoffed, "Besides, he'd tell you anyway."

            Mrs. Weasley had finally disentangled herself enough from the kitchenware's machinations to peer over Mr. Weasley's shoulder. She frowned slightly, but her voice was grimly satisfied as she said, "Well, it's better than the twins." 

            "Come now, Molly, five O.W.L.s is very respectable," Mr. Weasley said in a placating tone. "And look here, he got an E in Herbology; he's the first Weasley to do that since my great-uncle Monty!"

            "Oh, I suppose you're right, Arthur," she said, her face softening as she wiped her hands on her apron.

            "Though Monty did end up in St. Mungo's with a bad case of dysentery when he mistook a Kattinkus branch for Depellus Root…" Mr. Weasley was mumbling absently, though no one seemed to be paying attention to him anymore.

            "I wonder what the notes mean," Harry said, turning over his paper to look. He flipped it back and forth to check the entries for R and T, the two he had. R meant "Recommended for study by career advisor", which made sense. The four subjects marked with it were the ones Professor McGonagall had stressed to him as being important for Aurors when he had met with her to discuss career advice. The entry for T caught him by surprise though. It read "Top score in year". Glancing at Hermione's grade sheet, he saw that she had a long list of Ts; in fact, she had claimed top of the class in everything except for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

            She seemed to have noticed the same fact just then. She looked down at his marks, then looked back up at him with a smirk and an "I told you so" look. He couldn't suppress a smile, mostly because he was glad that she hadn't gotten offended.

            "I guess I can't win them all," she said softly, as if reading his thoughts. "Just don't let it go to your head, Mr. Potter," she added teasingly.

            He smirked and scratched the back of his head, feeling a little embarrassed. Being close with Hermione Granger didn't lead one to anticipate being best at anything academic amongst your friends.

            More footsteps came down the stairs, and the next to join them in the kitchen was Ginny. Like Harry, she had dressed before coming down, in a pair of Muggle jeans and a Weasley jumper, which was Gryffindor red with a golden G. "Morning all," she said cheerily. Looking around, she noticed all the sheaves of paper, and she 'aah'ed in recognition. "O.W.L. results arrived? How did Ron do?"

            "Five, with an E in Herbology," Mr. Weasley reported.

            Ginny skipped over and looked for herself. "An E in Care of Magical Creatures, too." When she was done surveying, she said mischievously, "We've got another Charlie in the making!"

            "What about Charlie?" another voice called from the stairway, followed shortly by a slightly frazzled-looking Ron. He had one of his own Weasley jumpers pulled messily over his pajamas, and his hair looked as though he had just gotten done with Quidditch practice.

            "O.W.L.s are in," Ginny said, picking up the parchment and waving it teasingly.

            Ron blanched as his eyes tracked the fluttering paper nervously.

            "Don't worry, you beat Fred and George by two," Ginny reported after a tormenting moment. 

            Ron sagged slightly in relief as Ginny handed him his marks. He patted down his hair absently while he read.

            "Good work Ron," said Mr. Weasley.

            "Yes, but you'd better buckle down with your studies if you want to keep those grades up for N.E.W.T.s," added Mrs. Weasley, waving a spatula at him.

            "Don't worry, Mum," Ron mumbled. "How'd you two do?" he asked, looking up at Harry and Hermione.

            "Six," Harry replied. "And you'll never guess what I qualified for N.E.W.T.s in." Ron cocked his head questioningly. "Potions."

            "No way! I can't believe Snape accepted you for his advanced class! Bet that was the hardest name he ever had to write down," Ron said, grinning. 

           Harry had a sudden mental picture of Snape, desperately struggling against a disobedient hand that was scribbling "H. Potter" on a form. "I didn't even get an O, like he said he required," Harry explained. "I only managed an E."

            "Bet it was even harder, then. D'you think not enough people got Os to form the class?" Ron mused. "Wouldn't surprise me if no one but Hermione got one."

            "How did you know I got an O in Potions?" she asked.

            "Lucky guess," he said, giving her a sardonic look. 

            Ignoring the jab, she neatly folded her grade card up and returned it to the envelope. "So," she continued breezily, "what classes will the two of you be taking next year?"

            Ron looked at her incredulously. "Hermione, we've barely opened the letters, and you already want us to be picking next year's classes?"

            "It's never too early to at least give it some thought."

            "It's _summer_!" exclaimed Ron.

            Harry pretended to look at his forms to hide his smile. His best friends were just as much oil and water as ever. Yes, it was indeed summer. And that meant only one thing, when it got right down to it: He was almost home again.

.

.

.

.

*A/N* - Knowing FF.net's formatting quirks, the correct appearance of the O.W.L. grade sheet is probably dependent upon your monitor resolution, text size settings, and the position of Jupiter at 3:04 A.M. every Tuesday. Damnable automatic double-spacing. If it appears messed up to you, you still should be able to decipher it well enough. If not, and you're really _that_ curious, e-mail me.

I won't dwell on it here, but I'll mention that Harry's acceptance to Snape's N.E.W.T. class is one of the not-so-surprising surprises I'm predicting for Book Six. You heard it here first, unless of course you heard it someplace else before now.


	5. Chapter Five: Trouble by the Thames

**CHAPTER FIVE - TROUBLE BY THE ****THAMES******

Life at the Burrow was more peace than Harry had known for months. Often it was he, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny alone in the house, what with Mrs. Weasley spending more than a little time out running errands, and Mr. Weasley just as busy with Ministry business. The date of the wedding was set for August 17th, a Saturday, and it would take place on the Hogwarts grounds. Harry had never been to the castle during the summer holiday, and he found himself wondering how many of the teachers stayed there year-round. If Snape was one of them, he hoped fervently that the sour Potions master wouldn't be attending the festivities.

There were almost three weeks still to go until the big day, but it might have been three hours considering Mrs. Weasley's behavior. Not only was she barely home at all, what Harry did see of her was a woman whose frantic pace could only be compared to someone attempting to outrun an angry dragon. By Ron and Ginny's account, that was fairly normal ever since she'd found out about the big event, and by now they seemed quite accustomed to minding their usual chores and keeping the Burrow in one lovably rickety piece without her. No doubt the fact that the twins were staying in their own flat above the joke shop helped in that regard.

On Harry's fifth morning at the Weasleys', he awoke to the sound of muffled voices through the floorboards. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he pulled on some clothes and left Ron to his oblivious snores. He didn't even reach the top of the steps before he could hear bits and pieces of what was going on, catching something about a dress. It sounded that Mrs. Weasley was even more frantic than usual.

When Harry reached the bottom of the stairs, he found Mrs. Weasley careening from room to room at a dead run, carrying packages back and forth to the accompaniment of ranting that was not entirely intelligible. More surprising was the sight of one of the Elves, Tamison, standing serenely by the door and observing her with no small amusement.

"I'm rather glad she's so enthusiastic about all this," he said, glancing towards Harry at the foot of the stairs. He paused while the subject of his remark blazed past once more, carrying a stack of boxes. Several had large trails of fabric hanging out. "It leaves her far too busy to kill the messenger," he concluded with a wry grin.

"Er…?" asked Harry.

"I received the unenviable task of telling her that Fleur has had a change of heart about the bridesmaids' dresses," he went on. Mrs. Weasley made another pass through the kitchen, this time plowing through empty-handed. "Another two birds with one stone affair… I'm beginning to wonder how there are any birds left."

Harry gave a sniff of laughter. "What's the second bird?" he queried.

Tamison tilted his head to one side, displaying his usual smirk. "Why, you are, of course."

"Oh, you!" called Hermione as she came rushing around the corner of the stairway. "For someone who's spent an eternity incognito, you certainly can't keep a secret!" she said, slapping Tamison on the shoulder.

The Elf only smiled wider.

"What's the secret?" Harry asked.

Hermione looked at him in disbelief. "Harry, don't tell me you've gone that thick after just two months of summer. Don't you know what today is?"

He thought for a moment. "Of course I do, it's… oh." He smiled sheepishly.

"Do I have your permission to say 'happy birthday' now, milady?" Tamison asked, looking askance to Hermione.

She slapped him on the shoulder again.

Mrs. Weasley came speeding past for the third time. Without breaking stride, she looked at Harry and said, "Oh, happy birthday, dear," before disappearing once more into the next room.

-- --- --

There was an even bigger surprise in store for Harry that day, which he found out about as soon as everyone was awake. Hermione, with some help from Ginny, had managed to set up a trip to London for the four of them as a birthday present. To placate Mrs. Weasley just as much as Dumbledore, Tamison had offered to come along in order to keep an eye on them while they had their fun. It didn't strike Harry quite like the chaperoning it was obviously intended to be; the Elves were still an exciting novelty, and having the chance to talk with Tamison for most of the day was as exciting to Harry as it was to Hermione – who could barely contain all of her questions when she was around him.

With Mr. Weasley's flying Ford Anglia still at large in the Forbidden Forest and four underage wizards needing a ride, Tamison had brought along another guidestone for their journey, which was a novel experience for Ron, Ginny, and Hermione. They appeared in a secluded alley in the downtown and strode casually out into the light crowds of Wednesday afternoon on the London streets. Hermione brought out a printed Muggle map, as none of them – not even the Elf, somewhat surprisingly – knew how to get around particularly well.

For his part, Harry didn't much care where they ended up. He had awakened this morning honestly not remembering it was his birthday, and as far as he was concerned, simply arriving at the Burrow so early in the summer made for the best gift he could have thought of. But as he looked around at the bustle of Muggle London and the tall skyscrapers pocked throughout the skyline, just spending a day wandering aimlessly and seeing the sights with his friends would have suited him perfectly.

But Hermione, he knew, wasn't nearly so unstructured.

"I didn't want to lay out the whole day for you, since it is your birthday, Harry," she said, leading them down to a busy street corner, "but I had a few places in mind that we might like to visit."

"Can we see the blokes with the funny hats?" Ron wondered excitedly.

Hermione rolled her eyes slightly. "Yes, Ron, I had Buckingham palace in mind. But we're…" she paused and looked at the road signs, which labeled this the corner of Cannon Street and Cable Street, "here," she said, pointing at the eastern edge of her map.

"Ooh," Ginny breathed. "We're right near the Tower of London!"

"Precisely," Hermione nodded firmly. "However…" She turned to Harry. "What's your decision, birthday boy?" she asked with a playful grin.

Harry smiled broadly, just soaking in the thought. It was his first birthday – _ever_ – among his friends.

If his smile grew any more then, it might have hurt. "Lead on… milady."

They took a winding course through the roads of east London, making their way southwest among the buildings and traffic. They passed rows of stories and cafes, and Ginny could barely keep pace for all her window shopping. Ron walked as though he had his head on a swivel, trying to take in all the sights around them at once, more often than not all the sights being the most attractive female passersby. That seemed to irk Hermione to some extent as she led them through the maze of buildings. Harry, who only felt like laughing at Ron's oblivious ogling and found the tall turrets of Hogwarts far more impressive than any skyscraper, just ambled along casually, soaking in the rolling sounds most of all. The faint background hum of scattered conversations, the rev of car engines and the occasional honk of a horn, the rattle of a jackhammer as they passed a section of roadwork… Harry just let it all flow over him, enjoying the sounds of simple _life_ surrounding him. Tamison, meanwhile, hung back several paces, so much that he seemed more to be shadowing them than escorting.

The River Thames eventually came into view, along with the famous Tower Bridge that sat astride it next to the just-as-famous castle they were making for. The crowd of summer tourists grew quite thick as they approached the area around the landmarks, with guides leading clusters of people snapping photographs and shepherding impatient children. Hermione took the point just as capably as any of the tour guides, leading them down the pathways and indicating points of interest, from the high walls of the White Tower to the low grassy run of the Ditch.

By the time the five of them made their way down to a walkway on the north bank of the Thames, Hermione had settled into more of an occasional commentary, leaving everyone to simply enjoy the spectacle around them, to the accompaniment of Tamison softly humming "London Bridge is Falling Down".

"You can almost reach out and touch it!" Ginny said, staring at the Tower Bridge as they stopped at the southeast corner of the walkway.

"If Fred and George were here, you'd probably be flying out to do just that," Ron said with a smirk.

Harry leaned back against the railing along the path, craning his neck to look up at the crenellations lining the walls of Traitor's Gate.

"It's almost like Hogwarts, isn't it?" Hermione commented as she came up to the rail beside him, facing out towards the shimmering water of the river.

Harry nodded. "I can almost feel the wind coming off the lake," he said contentedly. "I'd say I couldn't wait to be back, but I'm having too good a time already."

He closed his eyes as a breeze washed though, so he didn't see Hermione's soft smile. "I was worried you wouldn't like this," she said quietly.

Harry looked at her. "Are you kidding? This is the best birthday present ever, Hermione," he said sincerely, reaching over to put a hand on her shoulder.

She leaned forward against the rail. "Thank you, Harry… But that's not quite what I meant."

He looked at her quizzically.

"I was still worried about you," she went on. "About whether you had listened to what I told you last night."

"Now who's worrying too much?" he said, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I always listen to you, Hermione, if maybe I don't always do it right away. But I know what you meant last night, and I agree. We can't ever forget what we're trying to save from Voldemort in the first place."

She smiled, and sighed, and Harry realized that she had needed to hear those words then just as much as he had needed to hear them last night. "You're right," she said. "And since Ron wants to see the 'blokes with the funny…'" she trailed off.

"Hmm?" Harry prompted. He turned to see her staring fixedly at the waters of the Thames, her eyes widening. Her breath became rapid, and she began to shake. "Hermione?!" Harry called in alarm. He was just about to try and shake her out of it when he felt it too.

The bright day was shifting, as if a thick cloud had just drifted in front of the sun. But it didn't stop there; the whole world continued darkening, the blackness of midnight fast coalescing around Harry until he could no longer see anything. The metal bar of the railing frosted beneath his touch, as all the world was an impenetrable black shroud before his eyes. Icy fingers wrapped around him, stealing the very warmth from his body with a shuddering gasp. Fear swelled inside Harry, knotting his stomach, clutching at him, clawing at him. He heard the faint echoes of a scream, and a terrible, terrible laugh.

Just as the fear made to grab him, it disappeared with a flash. Harry blinked, his heart pounding with adrenaline, and he saw Tamison standing next to him and Hermione, a hand on each of their shoulders. His eyes were pools of molten silver, blazing out towards the water. Harry twisted to see, and what he already knew to be true was confirmed.

The darkness around him was not gone, only lessened. The world was dimmed ominously, as though a bank of fog had rolled in from the river and the sun were hidden behind a thick wall of storm clouds. That was still enough to clearly see the swirls of black robes traveling towards them, a dozen dementors gliding with sinister grace across the very waters of the Thames.

"You know the charm, Harry," Tamison said, all traces of mirth and wit gone from his voice. "Use it, quickly."

"But we're not at Hogwarts!" Hermione said anxiously, shielded from her own inner fears at Tamison's touch.

"We have no choice," the Elf said decisively. "I cannot hold twelve of them off alone, not with so many hundreds of people around, feeding their strength and inviting their kiss. You must hurry! Focus, and I will hold the terrors at bay."

Harry nodded firmly, drawing out his wand. To some surprise, Hermione brought out hers, as well, moving beside him and facing down the advancing pack of dark horrors. Even with the surge of reassurance that sight gave him, he didn't waste time saying anything. He only turned, and two wands pointed towards the dementors.

"_Expecto__ Patronum!_" they both called at once. With the sound of a tidal rush, a surge of silvery light erupted from each wand. A brilliant silver stag and gleaming otter charged out over the water. The black cloaks whirled as the dementors scattered against the pair of Patronuses, their powers useless. The stag charged into one of them, lowering its antlers and sending the bodiless being flipping end over end and scattering away into the enveloping mists. Guarded by both his Patronus and whatever magic Tamison was using, Harry laughed at the sight of Hermione's Patronus toying with its foes, the otter plunging one dementor after another down into the river not to be seen again.

A few moments later, the silvery animals faded, along with the shade that had passed over the beaming summer sun, whose rays warmed them instantly. Tamison released his hold on Harry and Hermione's shoulders and leaned forward, placing a hand on the rail to steady himself. "Good work," he told them, gasping deeply.

From behind them on the path, Ron and Ginny walked up to the rail shakily. "What just happened?" she asked, her voice still tremulous.

"Dementors," Harry said. "We managed to drive them off."

Hermione was staring at the river. "I can't believe it. We're in the middle of London!"

"Voldemort grows bolder by the day," Tamison said gravely, still supporting himself against the rail. "The Muggles can do nothing against those wretched perversions, but still, to send them openly…" he trailed off, still breathing heavily.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked.

Tamison waved his concern away, even managing to recover a bit of his customary smile. "I'll be fine in a moment. One dementor is easy enough to block out, but twelve… They have strength in numbers, to say the least."

"Twelve?" Ron said. "Blimey, Harry, that's nothing for you."

Harry managed a grateful smile for his best friend. "This was a bit different, Ron. That time on the lake I couldn't even feel them. They were too focused on… well, me."

Tamison's brow furrowed. "Dumbledore said you knew the Patronus Charm, but I didn't know you had used it successfully before," the elf admitted.

"Yeah, just twice though," replied Harry. "Last year I had to chase away a couple from me and my cousin… and three years back, I had to get them away from me, Hermione – well, two past versions of us, actually, but that's a long story – and there were about a hundred then, but I'd already done it before, so…" he trailed off sheepishly.

Tamison blinked, several times. "A _hundred_ dementors?" he repeated. "By yourself?"

"Well," Harry muttered, "like I said, I'd already done it, so it wasn't too hard."

The elf whistled, shaking his head.

"What do we do next?" Ginny asked.

Tamison finally let go of the rail and stood up straight. "First, we need to get the four of you back to the Burrow. Then, I'll have to find Dumbledore—"

He was interrupted by the flutter of wings as an owl swooped close over his head, dropping a letter each to both Harry and Hermione.

Harry frowned at his letter with more annoyance than anything, reading the familiar address script of the Improper Use of Magic Office. Hermione, however, had gone white as a sheet.

Tamison heaved a long sigh. "Then again, maybe it's Dumbledore who'll be finding us."

-- --- --

No one spoke much on their way out of London. Even Ron, who had been filled with rage as soon as he found out what was in the letters delivered to Harry and Hermione, was resigned to a simmering glower. As Tamison had expected, they had no sooner arrived back at the Burrow and sat down in the kitchen when Dumbledore rolled through the door, his face a severe mask.

"How many were there?" he barked harshly, staring at Tamison.

The elf held the headmaster's gaze without blinking. "A dozen, but—"

"Muggles!" Dumbledore interrupted forcefully. "How many Muggles were there, standing in plain sight of that fiasco!?"

Tamison recoiled, recognizing how the wizened thundercloud had phrased his first question. "I—"

The headmaster didn't even let him start, silencing the immortal being with a simple look. "You have revealed your own secret, Silverrose, but do not forget that there is still a world divided around you. The Ministry has managed to contain the stories of the two brilliant silver animals running across the River Thames in broad daylight, but we will not always be so lucky."

Tamison frowned deeply, obviously not accustomed to being talked to as Dumbledore was addressing him now. But the facts of the matter were plain, and he kept silent.

"We would not be where we were today without your help," Dumbledore continued, his voice calm, though not apologetic. "But you were there precisely to prevent something like this from happening."

"But professor," Harry offered hesitantly, "If we hadn't used the Patronus Charm… what would have happened to all those people?"

Dumbledore turned to Harry, his expression unreadable. "Harry, those dementors were not there for the Muggles. They were there for one reason only, and they fulfilled their goal perfectly."

"You mean they wanted to be driven off?" Ron asked confusedly.

"Yes, and in plain sight," Dumbledore replied gravely. "Right now, the struggle for the secrecy of our world is just as important as the struggle against Voldemort himself. The chaos that would follow should we be revealed would work both entirely against us, and entirely in the Dark Lord's favor. That is his greatest weapon now, without his full strength rallied and without his most loyal Death Eaters at his side."

"And we played along like puppets today, didn't we?" Ginny said sourly.

Dumbledore's gaze softened back to the face of their kindly school headmaster. "Greater witches and wizards than yourselves have been more easily duped… myself among them," he said with a reassuring smile.

"And you can tear up those letters," he added, looking to Harry and Hermione. "Even if Cornelius was not so, ah, receptive to my advice at the moment, the Ministry of Magic is not nearly so blind anymore as to miss the presence of a dozen dementors in the heart of London. And the testimonies of witnesses to the Aurors confirmed the event, even if they could not see what was happening."

Hermione all but wilted in relief, and Harry sighed deeply before vigorously shredding his post in half. This latest brush with expulsion had worried him even more than he had realized, but it was thankfully over… before it had even started, it seemed.

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A/N - Edited/updated version posted 5/14. No ground-breaking changes, mostly just cosmetic stuff.

You can thank the network premiere of _Sorcerer's Stone_ and the imminent release of the _Prisoner of Azkaban_ movie to theaters for my reinvigorated interest in this fic. This chapter had been sitting half-finished for a couple months now as I devoted my attention to other projects, but my mood for writing each of my ongoing stories is as fickle a friend as fame. With that in mind, I won't even bother commenting on how loose the string is that ties me to this story… er, too late.

I've never been to the sceptered isle myself, though there are certainly enough pictures of the Tower of London floating around to lead me to believe that the events of this chapter are plausible… I hope.

Not having read any of the HP books for several months, and having worked exclusively with originals for some time as well, it's easy to detect that this chapter isn't quite as 'Rowlingish' as those preceding. I only hope that isn't too jarring to anyone (new readers or repeat customers alike, bless your patient souls); and knowing me as only I do, I'll probably have all five books re-read and be spouting on about jumpers and rows like an old pro within a week.


	6. Chapter Six: The Minister's New Clothes

**CHAPTER SIX - THE MINISTER'S NEW CLOTHES**

All things considered, the incident in London blew over much too easily for Harry's liking. Whether they had too much else on their mind or hadn't even heard about it in the first place, none of the other Weasleys made mention of it. Even knowing how distracted Mrs. Weasley was with the imminent wedding, it simply wasn't like her to let such a frightening event by without a word. Mr. Weasley at least cast a few sidelong looks their way for the next few days, but he said nothing of it.

All the same, three weeks passed with nothing more than the summer doldrums to contend with. If nothing else, it served as a perfect opportunity for a head-start on Quidditch training for the upcoming year.

"I'm telling you, Harry, not only are you going to be un-banned and back in uniform with one word to McGonagall, there's no one else who's got a chance at Captain!" said Ron as they looped around one another during some high-speed drills.

"There's got to be someone who'd be better," Harry protested wearily. Almost from the first moment he had hopped on a broom, Harry hadn't gotten a moment's peace without Ron extolling his virtues as Quidditch-Captain-to-be.

"Name one," Ron predictably replied. "Fred and George aren't coming back this year. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie are all graduated. Who's left?"

"You could do it," Harry offered, trying out a new defense. It was worth it just to see Ron's eyes go wide as saucers and the nose of his Cleansweep wobble unsteadily before he reigned the broom to a stop.

"You're joking, right?" said Ron, looking torn between fear and amusement as he dropped in for a rough landing. "I've only just learned how to fly in a straight line with more than two eyes on me, remember?"

Harry smirked, but discarded several quips that came to mind in exchange for a thoughtful silence as he circled lazily back towards the ground.

"What about Ginny, then?" Harry offered, only half in jest.

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but quickly shut it and cocked his head to one side. "Now that's strange. Not only do you sound serious, but some part of me actually thinks it might be a good idea."

"She's certainly a good player, which doesn't hurt," Harry said, thinking aloud. "And if she can rein me in like she did last year, she can handle anyone."

"She's always talking Quidditch, too," said Ron. "When she and Charlie get together, it sounds like a sports report on the Wizarding Wireless."

A smile spread gradually across Harry's face. It wasn't that he was terribly against being Captain, not at all. But some part of him recognized that the feelings he got at the though were more because of the instinctive reaction to the sound of "Harry Potter, Gryffindor Quidditch Captain" than anything else. He was better at Quidditch than anything else he did, but that didn't make him the best fit as Captain. Case in point, he had never been fond of Oliver Wood's endless strategizing and even more endless pep talks; not to mention that just this past year he had barely stayed out of trouble long enough to attend half the practices, his lifetime ban at the decree of Dolores Umbridge notwithstanding.

"And what are you two conspiring about?" Ginny said, walking towards them with her own broom draped over her shoulder.

The two boys turned, not surprised at her approach; she often joined them for some flying. They weren't often caught conspiring to nominate her for Quidditch Captain, though.

"Oy, Ginny, what'd you think about being Captain of the Gryffindor team this year?" Ron called, a wickedly playful smile on his face.

Even taking into account the three years Ginny had spent unable to form a word in his presence, Harry had never seen the girl shocked so utterly speechless.

Ron glanced to his side and nudged Harry with an elbow. "Hopefully I didn't knock her too far out of it," he mumbled. "Mum'd be in a right state."

After a few moments, Ginny blinked heavily and shook her head in disbelief. "No way. How could _I _be Captain? What about the two of you?"

"Well, as the active ranking member of the team – what with my four whole games of experience – I think it's a splendid idea," Ron said, sounding delighted. Whether it was because of the actual idea to make her Captain or simply Ginny's reaction to it, Harry couldn't rightly tell.

"But… but what about all the empty roster spots?" Ginny protested. "How would I find four new players? There would have to be tryouts for Beaters and Chasers, and the reserve team… What's so funny?"

Harry suppressed his laughter. "It sounds to me like you've already got a better idea than either of us," he said, grinning.

She spitted him with an unblinking stare. Harry would have found it intimidating, if it wasn't the perfect validation to his argument.

Ginny let out a long breath through her nose. "Fine, then. If you two want to make me Captain, don't think I'll be going easy on you." Her smile this time _did_ set Harry back on his heels, and Ron as well. "That is, assuming, you two are good enough to make the team at all."

Without another word, she spun about and marched confidently back towards the house.

Harry and Ron shared a look, and Ron was the first to speak his mind.

"Think it's too late to vote her out?"

-- --- --

The Tuesday before the wedding preparations were reaching a fevered pitch. The site of the ceremonies was being set up on the Hogwarts grounds, and everyone was chipping in. That afternoon, Mr. Weasley arrived home at the Burrow from work early. He rounded everyone into the living room to travel by Floo powder

"Now, Hogwarts is a big place, with a lot of fireplaces connected to the network, so speak extra-clearly," he instructed them once everyone was ready to leave.

Mr. Weasley tossed a pinch of the powder on top of the crackling fire, turning it a startling emerald green. Stepping into the arch of the fireplace, he called, "Hogwarts, Great Hall!" and disappeared in a burst of flame. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny each followed one by one, enduring the dizzying swirl of sights and colors. More than once, Harry wished wizard travel methods were all as easy as the relatively tame journey of a guidestone.

They all came through in one piece, though, brushing the dust off their clothes as they stumbled out into the familiar Great Hall.

Well, not so familiar. The enchanted ceiling was the same as ever, showing the sparkling blue sky above marked only by the occasional puff of cloud, but the giant house tables were all stacked against the walls. With the empty floor, the Great Hall felt larger than ever, right down to the echoes of their steps as Mr. Weasley led them out and towards the entrance hall. Harry had been through the corridors when they were deserted plenty of times, but there was something different about it when he knew that the rest of the castle was just as empty. Just like the Great Hall, the whole place just seemed bigger without at least the thought of bumping into someone around the next corner.

They passed through the giant double doors and walked around the edge of the walls until they came upon the wide space in front of the lake. There, on the edge of the lake and right next to the very tree that Harry had seen his father and his friends in Snape's Pensieve, the site of the wedding was taking shape.

A large pavilion was being pulled up, a blue-and-white striped tent stretching at least a hundred feet wide and maybe a quarter as many deep, though it was hard to tell. There was a small, white platform, three steps high, set in the shade of the tree, with a white arch topped by crossed golden wands. As they walked up, Harry saw Charlie using his wand to set up two rows of simple folding chairs on either side of a red carpet aisle. He stopped his work to wave in greeting.

Harry's eyes were drawn to the pavilion as it began a ponderous rise. He soon heard the shouts of "Heave! Ho!" that accompanied each jerk of ascent. He smiled when he saw the unmistakable sight of Hagrid, the immense half-giant gamekeeper, leading the effort as several people tugged on the rope and pulley that lifted the center of the tent.

"Oh, good, you're all here!" Mrs. Weasley said breathlessly, shuffling up with her hair looking like she had just been caught in a tornado. "Ron, Ginny, you help Charlie with the chairs. Harry, Hermione, see if they need help getting the tent up, if you would, dears." She glanced to the side, where a slightly shady figure was wandering around the base of the platform. With a small hiss of annoyance, she bustled off in that direction, pointing and shouting, "Mundungus Fletcher, get away from there! Don't think I haven't seen you eyeing that gold all day!"

Harry couldn't help but smile as Mundungus looked up in alarm and scrambled away behind the tree.

He and Hermione went up to the group struggling to hoist the large structure. They were quite the sight; led by Hagrid, they stood in a row from tallest to shortest. There was the familiar face of Remus Lupin, scowling with exertion, followed by Mad-Eye Moody, who was simply scowling in general and not appearing to be of much help, trailed by the surprising sight of none other than the diminutive Professor Flitwick, who was of even less help than Moody, but certainly not for any lack of effort. Used to seeing their Charms Professor in robes, Harry was taken aback by the sight of the goblin teacher in a pair of blue coveralls and a rainbow-checked flannel shirt. His legs were pumping madly as he backpedaled, tugging with all his might on the rope.

"'eave! 'o!" Hagrid bellowed, leading their chant. That was when Harry and Hermione caught his eye, and the giant stopped, his eyes widening in delight as he waved both hands excitedly in greeting.

His call of "hello", however, was drowned out by the startled yells of Lupin, Moody, and Flitwick as the rope yanked all three off their feet and dragged them forward along the grass. Without the half-giant's strength, the pavilion collapsed back to the ground.

His hands still held in the air, Hagrid looked at the settling canvas. "Oops."

After a moment of dead silence, Harry and Hermione broke down, all but rolling on the ground in laughter. Lupin pulled himself up, wearing a rather amused smile as he brushed off his faded and worn pair of jeans. Moody grumbled and muttered all the while as he disentangled his feet from the rope, and Flitwick shook bits of grass from his frazzled white hair.

Harry and Hermione were already gasping for breath when Hagrid strolled over to envelop them in a suffocating hug. They were smiling even as they struggled for air while returning the half-giant's greeting.

"It's a treat ter see you two again so early!" Hagrid sniffed, wiping a tear of joy away with a thick finger. "I was sorry that I ne'er got ter talk much with when I visited las' month."

"It's good to see you, too, Hagrid," said Harry, reaching up high enough to pat the half-giant on the arm.

"And just in time to help us get this infernal thing standing," Lupin said with a laugh, running a hand through his thinning hair as he looked at the newly-collapsed pavilion.

"Why don't you just use magic?" Hermione asked quizzically.

"A good question," Professor Flitwick squeaked, not unhappily, though he was still picking blades of grass out of his hair.

"Oh, come on, now," said Hagrid. "It ne'er hurts to do some things the ol' fashioned way."

"Heaven's know I'd second that," Moody growled, his good eye fixed on Hagrid while his magical one spun about to take in Harry and Hermione. "But I think I may need to learn to eat my words once in a while." He gave a rattling chuckle.

"Well, we've got two more backs to put into it, now," Lupin said eagerly. "Hop to it then!"

They managed to get the tent up and secured without any further incident. Afterwards, Mrs. Weasley set them at putting up rows of picnic tables beneath it. Even though they were on the Hogwarts grounds, Harry and Hermione were in no hurry to test the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, and kept their wands tucked safely away as they worked.

The sun was dipping low in the western sky by the time everything was done. They all sat relaxing in the grass, looking over the fruit of their labor, with pitchers of fresh lemonade drifting around. Mr. Weasley had even conjured up a Muggle grill, and with some instruction had actually managed to get it lit. Harry wasn't holding his breath for the hamburgers and hot dogs sizzling away there, but the sight of Mr. Weasley, decked out in his own red-and-white striped "Charm the Chef" apron and hopping in delight every time a drop of grease went up in a plume of fire, was a treat in itself.

Mrs. Weasley was slumped in one of the folding chairs, waving a fan and appearing totally spent. Even so, Harry caught the proud, if weary, smile every time she looked around.

"My dad loves cookouts just like these," Hermione said. She was laying back on the grass between Harry and Ron, looking up at the clouds, which were cast magnificently in the orange glow of sunset.

"I think my dad is growing a bit too fond of the grill," Ron worried, watching apprehensively as Mr. Weasley used his grill fork to bat out a spurt of flame that had caught on the front of his apron, laughing all the while.

Harry smiled. "Don't worry, Dumbledore won't let him burn down too much." He glanced at the headmaster, who was looking particularly out of place outside of his customary robes. He was wearing a baggy pair of blue bell-bottoms, a tie-dyed, long sleeve shirt, and a pointed hat with a baseball cap brim and the logo of the Chudley Cannons perched over his long mane of white hair, and talking intently with Professor Flitwick.

Harry let his gaze drift wistfully off over the gleaming surface of the lake. It was almost too perfect, really. The faint breeze, the feel of the grass beneath his hands, the hum of a dozen conversations… Harry didn't quite know what to make of it, other than that this was too good to be real. He kept staring out across the lake, wondering if, when he turned back around, everything would disappear just as quickly as the setting sun.

"Who's that?" Hermione wondered suddenly.

Harry looked down at her. She was looking off to their right. Harry turned, and quickly spotted a cluster of people walking towards them straight out of the setting sun. He squinted, but couldn't make anyone out. The conversation around them slowly died away as more people noticed their new guests. Harry felt someone come up behind him, and looked to see Dumbledore walking up. The headmaster stopped right beside him, and stood there waiting.

With the glare of the sun in his eyes, the newcomers were almost on top of them before Harry was finally able to identify the first of them. He frowned when he recognized the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. The minister was not the highest on Harry's list of favorite people, but this was the first time Harry had seen him since the Death Eater raid on the Department of Mysteries.

Once he had gotten a good look at the group when they stopped to face Dumbledore, Harry determined that he had never seen any of the other wizards with the Minister. They were certainly impressive, though. Wizards, by and large, were not a physically imposing lot, but the four standing almost unnervingly still and silent around Fudge with hands clasped at their backs looked more like bodybuilders. Six and a half feet tall each, they were wearing sunglasses – an unusual sight – but their heads were constantly swiveling from side to side, their eyes obviously taking in every detail around them. Their robes were a stylishly cut black, with a V at the chest revealing a dark grey vest beneath. Backlit by the fading light, they loomed like giants over the group, who were no longer very relaxed.

"Albus," Fudge said coolly. He nodded as though his neck were made of concrete.

"Cornelius," Dumbledore replied cheerily, his eyes roving casually to take in the minister and his entourage. "What brings you here?"

"I've come regarding the matter we discussed last week," Fudge said, casting a wary look to the crowd behind Dumbledore, who were all watching and listening intently.

"Really?" said Dumbledore, slightly surprised. "I didn't think you'd have heard back so soon."

Fudge glanced once more at the spectators. "Could we talk privately?" he asked, sounding impatient.

Dumbledore looked at the minister over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. "Why, Cornelius, I haven't been able to talk _privately_ to you ever since your, ah, recent additions," he said with a significant glance at the four burly forms flanking Fudge.

The minister's lip twisted. "Don't be ridiculous," he mumbled. "They're not spies, if you were worried, and they're certainly more reliable than…" he trailed off, stopping himself, but not before Harry clearly caught Fudge glancing his way.

"Well, I don't know who you could possibly be referring to," Dumbledore replied smoothly. "All these people behind me are the most loyal and trustworthy you will find anywhere."

The tightness of Fudge's jaw reminded Harry strongly of Uncle Vernon in a particularly surly mood.

"The answer was yes, in any case," the minister said through gritted teeth.

"Really? That's wonderful news," Dumbledore said happily. "I'm grateful that you would be so willing to part—"

"Shhh!" Fudge said, waving his hands, his eyes bugging as he cast another furtive look at the picnickers surrounding Dumbledore. "Be satisfied that it is arranged."

"As you will," Dumbledore replied, nodding submissively. "Well, since you're here, would you like to join us? It's a lovely evening, and I'm sure we can scrounge up enough space and food for five more!"

Fudge sputtered, as though the headmaster had just invited him to put on a fluffy pink dress and sing karaoke. "No, thank you! I have important, critical – urgent! – business to attend to back at the Ministry."

"Oh, come now, surely you can find time to relax for—"

"Good night, Dumbledore!" the minister cut him off sharply, before he made a flustered turn and marched off, his four silent shadows in perfect lockstep around him.

"Ta-ta, Cornelius!" the headmaster called after him with a jolly wave. "I cannot thank you enough!"

"Professor, what was he talking about?" Harry asked as Dumbledore turned back around.

"Oh, don't worry, Harry," he replied, his eyes twinkling in the fading light. "Just a small matter I needed to address."

"Who were those men with him?" Hermione wondered.

Dumbledore turned his head to regard the distant group. "Minister Fudge has become rather paranoid of late, thinking himself to be a prime target in the current struggle. As such, he has enlisted most of the top Aurors to serve as his personal bodyguard. They are with him at all times, day and night."

Ron snorted. "Like we'd be worse off if he was gone."

Dumbledore turned to the youngest Weasley boy, tilting his head and shaking a finger at him. "Now, now, Mr. Weasley, that's no way to talk about our Minister of Magic, now, is it?"

Ron obviously disagreed, but relegated himself to a glower in the direction Fudge had marched off in.

Abruptly, Dumbledore clapped, causing several people to jump. He rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Well then, I do believe I'm quite hungry! How are those hamburgers coming along, Arthur?"

Mr. Weasley, staring at Dumbledore with the grill fork clasped in one oven-mitted hand, gave a start and looked down to the grill. A towering inferno was rising out of it, inspiring a yelp from the distracted chef. He waved the cooking tool rapidly, which did nothing to quench the flames. Lupin ran over, and with a wave sent a jet of water out of his wand. A high plume of smoke rose from the grill.

Coughing and batting away the steam, Mr. Weasley peered down at the grill, then cast a furtive glance back towards the waiting crowd. "Err, well… who wants theirs well-done?"

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A/N - Ah, I'd almost forgotten how much I was looking forward to writing this chapter. Of course, it's exactly those kinds of chapters that never turn out the way you first envision them. And all the same, they often turn out far _better_ than you had hoped. The chapter title (whose pun is a bit more slanted than I'd first envisioned) and main point of this chapter came to me as the original idea for this story, actually, when I was first pondering what I'd need to do to convert my first HP story (_The Longest Night_, since removed) to a full-fledged sixth year fic.

Again, this chapter is going online a bit rough around the edges (though I have also uploaded a slightly more refined chapter five along with this new chapter), so there might be a few obvious typos and errors that I'd normally catch in the proofreading.

Oh, and I'm hoping they actually have cookouts in Britain…


	7. Chapter Seven: Old, New, Borrowed, and S...

**CHAPTER SEVEN - OLD, NEW, BORROWED, AND S.P.E.W.******

On the morning of Saturday the 17th Harry was jarred awake by the sounds of Ron noisily digging through his closet, grumbling with frustration.

"Blast it, where did I leave them…?" he muttered.

"Leave what?" asked Harry groggily, reaching for his glasses.

Ron looked over his shoulder. "Oh, sorry mate, didn't mean to wake you," he said distractedly. "I can't find my new dress robes though, the ones that Fred and George got me last year."

He went back to his search while Harry got himself ready. His own dress robes had been folded and arranged neatly with the rest of his clothes – a product of Dumbledore's unpacking spell, no doubt – and Harry laid them out on his bed.

"Aha!" Ron called triumphantly, yanking a long swath of red velvet from his closet. "Knew they were in here somewhere. Certainly an improvement, eh?" he said, holding up the robes for Harry's inspection.

Harry looked at his friend's attire. "Not bad," he said, impressed. "So long as people don't start making Christmas jokes," he observed, pointing to the bed and his bottle-green set of robes.

With the adults already off to oversee the final preparations for the wedding and greet the guests, the Burrow was again empty but for the four teenagers. After getting dressed, Harry and Ron were idling with a game of wizard's chess downstairs when Hermione and Ginny appeared. Both boys' eyes went instinctively wide at the sight. Hermione was in her periwinkle blue dress from the Yule Ball two years ago, and while she'd hadn't gone to the same lengths to fancy her bushy brown hair, it was still smoothed out and tied up into a French braid. Ginny was wearing robes of a strikingly rich crimson that hung low on one attractively freckled shoulder, her long, flowing hair set in bobbed curls.

"Oh stop staring," Hermione blurted, going slightly pink.

"Better us than the bride," Ginny whispered, just loud enough for Harry and Ron to hear.

They were left to fend for themselves on breakfast while they waited to leave for the wedding, which meant a simple fare of fresh fruit and some biscuits. Since traveling by Floo powder would not do their dress clothes any favors, Professor Lupin arrived shortly before nine to take them by Portkey to Hogwarts. He was dressed in a slightly faded but no less dignified set of deep grey robes streaked with silver threading. Their Portkey, quite efficiently, was Lupin's simply wrapped wedding gift.

There was already a fair crowd milling about the pavilion when they arrived, at least three dozen wizards in their finest robes chatting aimlessly. Harry recognized several faces, including the rest of the Weasleys, Mad-Eye Moody (who was wearing an ill-fitting three-piece suit), Hagrid (in the ratty topcoat he had worn to the Yule Ball), who was talking with Madame Maxime (dressed in a resplendent gown), and some familiar faces from the Ministry, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks among them. However, for everyone Harry recognized, there was a stranger among them; Fleur's family and friends, no doubt. French accents were thick in the air. Notable by his absence was Dumbledore.

"I've read about wizard weddings," Hermione said to Harry as they wove their way through the crowds. "They're a lot like Muggle weddings, actually."

Harry, whose knowledge of nuptial ceremonies more or less started and ended with "dearly beloved" and throwing rice – essentially what he had caught on Aunt Petunia's afternoon soap operas – nodded along as she explained the historic significance of the Ordinator, who was the wizard version of the minister, the customs of the gift-giving, which took place as soon as the vows were exchanged, and a few stories of weddings gone wrong, for good measure. Harry sincerely hoped no one intended to give Fleur and Bill a hellhound like the one that had ended up eating half the guests at a wedding in 1683, though with Hagrid in attendance, something similar was a disturbing possibility.

The air was crisp with a few banks of clouds passing in front of the sun every now and then, but it was shaping up to be a fine day for the outdoor festivities. The guests wound their way into seats along the red carpet aisle in front of the platform, where the Ordinator – a somewhat dumpy-looking, bearded wizard named Klotchney – waited to preside over the ceremony. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny all settled in near the back, across the aisle from a severe-looking witch. Though she wore a veil, her half-closed eyes and a nose far too small for her face were plain to see.

Conversation faded away as Klotchney raised his hand for silence. Once everyone was quiet, he gave a grand wave of his wand, and music filled the air around them. Everyone turned in their seats to look back for the simple procession. Bill was strolling solemnly towards the podium, wearing a dashing tuxedo and flanked by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Harry noticed as he walked by that the eldest Weasley boy had abandoned his fanged earrings today, though his red ponytail was as long as ever. Bill angled for the left side of the platform once he was past the seated guests, while his parents shuffled off to one side and stood facing him from the far left corner of the chair arrangements.

The music paused when Klotchney raised his wand once more, then, after several beats, returned with gusto when the Ordinator gave another wave. Harry had half started to turn again before he noticed that everyone else had their eyes locked forward – even Bill had turned his back – so Harry hastily tried to cover the movement by scratching his neck. A few moments later, the bride walked past, resplendent in a shimmering silver-white gown that seemed to be – and probably was – glowing from within. Even though her face was totally indistinguishable through the thick bridal veil, Harry could feel the faint tug of allure from Fleur's part-veela nature. Though he fought off the urge without much thought, he caught Ron, among others, staring quite obviously.

Fleur strode regally up the steps of the platform until she was standing beside Bill. With another gesture from Klotchney, the music stopped once more, at which point Bill and Fleur turned to face one another. After another long pause, the Ordinator took in a loud, deep breath and launched into the ceremony.

"Wizards and witches, friends and family, we convene today for the union of an altogether different kind of magic: The union of love and fidelity; of heart, soul, body, mind, and wand. Those who wish it so, speak now your agreement."

There was a chorus of "Hear, hears" from the guests, which caught Harry by surprise. Hermione gave him an amused look out of the corner of her eye.

The Ordinator went on for several more minutes, listing the Wizardly Virtues of Marriage and the lineages of the Delacour and Weasley families, among other things which Harry soon couldn't keep up with. After his sermon, Klotchney raised his hands and stood in another long moment of silence.

"Bring out your wands," the Ordinator said solemnly.

Bill and Fleur both raised their right hands, holding their wands out before them. Klotchney reached out, guiding their forearms down parallel to one another before he laid his own wand across them and turned his head to face Bill.

"William Weasley, repeat after me.

"I do solemnly pledge—"

"…I do solemnly pledge…" Bill repeated.

"For all my days and through all my actions—"

"…For all my days and through all my actions…"

"I shall serve, love, and protect you—"

"…I shall serve, love, and protect you…"

"Until my last spell be cast."

"…Until my last spell be cast."

The Ordinator turned to Fleur.

"Fleur Delacour, repeat after me.

"I do solemnly pledge—"

"I do zolemnly pledge…" Fleur echoed.

"For all my days and through all my actions—"

"…For all my days and zrough all my actions…"

"I shall serve, love, and protect you—"

"…I shall zerve, love, and protect you…"

"Until my last spell be cast."

"…Until my last spell be cast."

Klotchney looked down to the couple's arms and wands, which Harry then noticed were humming faintly and limned with a pale golden light. The priest then raised his arms high once more, and called loudly, "Their words are heard, their spells are cast. By your blessing, shall it be true?"

Harry, having heard the questioning tone of the last statement, joined in with the rest of the crowd in the exuberant call of "Hear, hear!"

At the chorus of the audience, the golden light around Bill and Fleur's wands intensified for a moment, and then slowly faded away. When the last trace of light had departed, the Ordinator placed one hand on each of the couple's backs. "The light has been affirmed. In the eyes of wizards and witches everywhere, I now proclaim you to be husband and wife!"

The cheers and applause that erupted as a grinning Bill tossed up Fleur's veil to reveal her happily smiling face drowned out what the Ordinator said next, but judging by what happened, Harry could guess.

-- --- --

The newlyweds spent a long time working their way through the crowd. They were quite thorough, not stopping until everyone had a chance to congratulate both husband and wife.

Harry hadn't even expected Fleur to remember him, so had to admit that it was more than just Fleur's part-veela charms that made her so radiant when she gave him a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, beaming when she told him how happy she was that he had been able to attend. She even surprised him further by taking a moment to find her young sister, Gabrielle, and ushered the girl forward to finally meet the boy who, as Fleur put it, "risked eez own chance at zee Triwizard Cup" to save her. Harry's wanted to say that it had been nothing and that none of the four people trapped below the lake not a hundred feet behind them had been in any real danger, but his protests died in his throat and he could only smile when the girl curtsied shyly and said "Merci, monsieur," in the most breathtakingly cute voice he had ever heard.

"Zo, zees eez ze boy who rescued your zeeszter for you," said a woman's voice in a French accent so thick that her words were almost unintelligible.

Harry turned, surprised, to see the stern-looking witch who had sat across from them standing there, eyeing Harry down the length of her too-small nose. She was slightly taller than Harry and certainly rounder, and her veil was drawn up, showing a long, thin mouth. Combined with her half-closed eyes, which Harry now noticed were prominently wide-set, the woman's face had the appearance of being stretched horizontally back towards her ears.

"Mama, this eez 'arry Potter," Fleur said. Her smile had suddenly grown perceptibly strained, and her voice was tinged with an uncharacteristically hesitant note.

The woman gave a very unladylike grunt. "Ouve courz I know who zees eez. A pleazure to meet you, meezter Potter," she said with a courtesy so thickly false that it would have put Aunt Marge to shame.

"It's nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Delacour," Harry said, trying very hard to sound polite. "You must be very happy for Fleur today."

She grunted again and angled her head back to look even farther down at him, as if she were trying to find her nose. "I go by zee name of Fasset, ever zeence Fleur's fahzer pazzed away," she informed him haughtily, as though he should have known the fact. She eyed him for a moment longer, then turned to Fleur. "Come, dear, your guestz are vaiting."

Harry could only blink in disbelief as the woman walked away.

"Well, I think it's safe to say Fleur isn't part-veela from her mother's side," Hermione observed, sounding put off even though – perhaps partly because – the woman had never even bothered to acknowledge anyone but Harry.

"Maybe she's adopted," Ron muttered sourly.

"Well, come on, they're getting ready for the gift-giving," said Ginny.

Everyone gathered around the center of the pavilion, where a large pile of wrapped presents covered two of the picnic tables next to Fleur and Bill. They were still talking with the guests when Mrs. Delacour made her presence known by clearing her throat loudly. She didn't notice, or more likely didn't care, about the looks her impatient attitude got her from the rest of the crowd – including some of the other guests from Fleur's family, Harry noted hopefully.

The gift-giving was a wonderfully straightforward ceremony which more or less involved everyone standing around and ogling the wedding presents the newlyweds arrived one by one. There was a rather spirited and informal game made of shouting out what everyone thought a package was before it was opened, and sometimes even after. "Eccentric" was a word that came to Harry's mind when he saw what a few of the gifts turned out to be.

One such instance was when Bill eagerly tore open a small package from his father and took out a pair of what looked like old metal-rimmed sunglasses. Even knowing Mr. Weasley's penchant for collecting Muggle trinkets, Harry thought the gift a bit queer.

"Go ahead, Bill, put them on," Mr. Weasley said insistently, grinning from ear to ear.

With a dubious smile, Bill complied, but as soon as the sunglasses were on his face he laughed in delight. "It's a Prospectus! Amazing!" he gasped, taking the glasses off again and closely examining every inch. "Where on earth did you get this, Dad?" Bill asked excitedly.

"Picked it up in a raid a couple months ago," Mr. Weasley said, beaming with pride. "Thought it was just one of the usual trinkets you find laying about – thought it was just a Protean Charm, since you can transfigure the style with a thought when you're holding them – but it turned out to be a bit of a double bang."

"I've wanted one of these for years," Bill said, moving to give his father a hug.

"What's a Prospectus?" Harry wondered, leaning over to Hermione. He obviously wasn't the only curious one; Bill had already handed over the sunglasses, which were being tried on and passed around with an assortment of delighted oohing and ahing.

"They're a magical detection tool," Hermione explained. "I've read about them; there are only a few dozen in existence, and they're extremely difficult to make."

Wrapping paper was an endangered species as Harry watched Fleur and Bill continue to open their gifts, glancing every few minutes for the Prospectus as it made its way around. In the meantime, the newlyweds received a King's treasure that ranged from rare collectibles to the standard household necessities. It was Fred and George, surprisingly, who bought the couple their first blender… though as soon as it had been opened for display to the crowd, it turned on and began whirring out of control, shooting assorted merchandise from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes out to the crowd. To the newlywed's chagrin, the twins informed them that there was a lifetime supply magically stashed inside, and the blender was otherwise quite useless.

Harry felt a polite tap on his shoulder and turned to see one of the French wizards holding out the Prospectus. Nodding his thanks, he wasted no time and put the sunglasses on, then looked around in astonishment. The world around him was blanketed in an orange haze, tinting everything the color of sunset. But most startlingly of all were the patches of brilliant light spread everywhere: Throughout the pavilion, among the pile of packages, in pockets and on bits of clothing. Harry clearly saw the twins' blender spin to life again with a vivid burst of light, shooting out tiny glowing boxes. He took the sunglasses off, and the world returned to normal.

"Brilliant," Harry said, handing them over to Ron.

The pile of opened packages was now dwarfing the stack of those that remained unopened. There were more laughs when Bill spent nearly five minutes tearing through what had to be several hundred layers of wrapping paper on one large gift, which in the end was a small jewelry box that contained a single earring. "It's real dragonfang," Charlie – who the gift was from – supplied proudly. "You could go a hundred years and not find another one that small."

Harry watched as Ron finished his try at the Prospectus and turned to hand them to Moody.

The wizard waved them away with one of his scarred smiles. "Already got one, myself," he growled with a wink. "Handy things," he informed them, his magical eye spinning about to look back towards the unwrapping, where Fleur was reaching for what looked like the last package.

"What's this now?" Moody grumbled, turning to train both eyes on the last gift.

"Ah, yes, zat is from me," Mrs. Delacour called imperiously. "I'm zure you will find is most uszful."

Fleur gave a startled shriek when the box shook slightly after she placed it in her lap, cutting the hum of conversation and drawing the eyes of anyone who hadn't been watching.

The young woman tentatively pulled at the bow on the top of the fairly large box, the blue satin ribbon falling away. She hesitantly tugged at the top, pulling it away to peer down inside.

She jerked back, eyes wide in surprise, as a head popped out of the box. It was small and flat, with a pair of large, floppy ears, and when it turned to look around at the crowd, it was blinking large, pale golden eyes against the light.

Harry heard the sharp intake of breath from Hermione as the house-elf hopped out of its tall box, landing on the grassy floor of the pavilion. It was wearing a light blue doublet tied at the waist with a red cord, and blinking up at Fleur and Bill. "My name is Porbly, master and mistress," it said humbly, sweeping down in a low bow. It winced, then rubbed and flexed its leg, obviously trying to work out some kinks from the stay in its package.

Harry could only stare in disbelief. He knew house-elves were the serving class of wizard society, and that they actually enjoyed that role… but this was beyond words. Dobby, whom Harry knew quite well, had lived a life of abuse and fear, but it was easy to reconcile that coming from the Malfoy family, and it made that one house-elf's freedom a sweet victory. But all Harry could think about was how long this house-elf, Porbly, might have been cooped up in that box.

Dimly, Harry noticed the guests' reactions. Some were smiling and nodding, impressed at what had undoubtedly been a costly gift. A few were even eyeing the house-elf with envy, like it was an expensive piece of jewelry. None that Harry could see was looking the least bit concerned or shocked by the presentation.

Except for Hermione, whose face was already deepening to a shade of red approaching the carmine of Ginny's dress robes. Her eyes were wide and blazing, nostrils flaring with every breath. Harry shared urgent glances with Ginny and Ron, but none of them seemed willing to even touch Hermione for fear that might set her off like a struck match thrown into an oil well.

They needn't have waited.

Hermione leapt to her feet as though propelled by a rocket, shaking visibly, sputtering at a total and utter loss for words.

Unfortunately, it was noticed by Mrs. Delacour.

"Are you choking on somezing, dear?" she asked, without the slightest trace of concern.

"AAARGH!" Hermione screamed incoherently, shaking like an earthquake. For the second time, conversation froze and all eyes were drawn to a single point. "I can't _believe_ you would do something like that!" she raged, jerking her arm out to point at Porbly. The house-elf looked left and right warily, as if worried it had done something wrong.

"I beg your pardon?" said Mrs. Delacour, nonplussed.

"You…. Inhuman… Torturous…" Hermione sputtered, even more enraged by the woman's indifference, if that were possible. Harry and Ron quickly stood up and each grabbed one of Hermione's elbows and began tugging her back out of the pavilion, muttering apologies.

"Wretched… Vicious… Intolerable…" Hermione kept stammering as she tried to dig her heels against the two boys' insistent pull. They were soon out from the crowd of the pavilion, and Hermione began to calm somewhat, at least enough to once more form words.

"The injustice of it! How can they possibly treat them so cruelly? House-elves are people just like you and me, they don't deserve to be locked up in a box, suffocated and starving, while they wait to be opened by someone who is going to order them around for the rest of their lives!"

Harry and Ron just let her rant. Hermione was returning to her normal color as she paced back and forth, her head of steam slowly boiling off.

"Er, Hermione," Ron ventured. "I know that keeping that house-elf in a gift box might not have been the nicest thing that ever happened to it—"

"Not _nice_?!" Hermione yelled, rounding on Ron and stopping him cold. "That's all you think it must have been, stuffed in a box?"

"Er, well…" Ron stammered desperately, "I know that, but think of where he's going now. You don't think Bill would mistreat him like that, do you?"

Hermione seemed to calm at that, at least a bit. "I suppose you're right," she allowed. "But that doesn't excuse what that wretched Fasset woman did."

"No, no, of course not," Ron said eagerly. "Listen, there's only so much that you can do. Even spew can't free every house-elf in a day, you know."

"He's got a point, Hermione," Harry said cautiously.

"You're right," Hermione said, nodding resolutely. "I'll just have to work a hundred times harder from now on. I'll make sure every last house-elf is free if it's the last thing I do." She paused and placed her hands on her hips.

"And you two are going to help me."

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A/N - Fleur's mother is mentioned in one line in GoF, a totally unsubstantiated character whose shoulder Fleur looks over to ogle Bill just before the Third Task in GoF. As such, I took some – okay, quite big – liberties. It's never stated which of Fleur's parent's mother is a veela, so I made it her father. We've never seen a male veela in the canon, but there are certain biological assumptions that can be made.

This was a difficult chapter to write, mainly because of a single vergence. How, exactly, would Hermione react to this scene? I debated it from one end to the other, everything from catatonia to a mindless spell-slinging rampage (okay, maybe not quite _that_ far), wondering how Hermione would respond to seeing a house-elf not only presented as a gift, but to have it wrapped in a package just like a blender or other inanimate object. It's an interesting question that JKR hasn't answered for me yet, because Hermione has never yet seen a house-elf truly in need of liberation. She never met Dobby until after he was freed by Harry, and the Hogwarts house-elves have a pretty good life in Dumbledore's employ by all accounts. She's all gung-ho about freeing some house-elves that are perfectly content, but to actually witness abuse that she has previously only imagined that the house-elves she's met so far suffer… It's a toughie, and I hope that not too many people think she went out-of-character. That is the absolute last thing I want to do (see the next paragraph), but neither do I want to just put the HP characters in dilemmas that are carbon-copies of those trials they've already faced in the books.

This, of course, leads me to the point of exactly how I regard this fandom. Now, I'd already intended to address part of this in the author's note for this chapter because of omnipresent questions about my intentions for romance, but this has since become a question of much greater scope. I regard fanfiction as emulation in its purest sense; this is not original work, it is done out of the love and admiration of the original work of another. The possibilities presented by an episodic, limited-perspective series such as Harry Potter are tailor made for the world of fanfiction, allowing aspiring authors and simple fans alike to explore the possibilities should we miraculously discover the reigns to this brilliant world in our hands. Being faithful to that world requires that certain boundaries be accepted; this is why I believe that certain fics – which include those that employ elements that fly in the face of facts presented in the canon, and most crossovers – are _not_ honest Harry Potter fanfiction. They are works that pillage the brilliance of a fantasy milieu, while utterly ignoring and dishonoring the depth and detail that J.K. Rowling has established.

However strongly I word – and therefore feel about – that ideal, this is certainly not to say that said fics are _bad_; bad writing is an altogether different sort of thing, which is fairly common – so much so that it is simply a part of the scenery on a website established for amateur authors. But I am saying that true Harry Potter fanfiction, by my personal definition, is a work created in admiration of the HP world that can simultaneously coexist with that world. You'll notice that I use _coexist_, and not a stricter term. The series being what it is, the canon is a fluid concept that by its inevitable end will have changed drastically seven times at the least. All the old fourth and fifth year novels you can find here on FF.net are not roundly dismissed simply because JKR has released the next book; they are simply made AU. Now, I am not a fan of AU stories, in the sense of stories created explicitly and intentionally deviant from the preexisting canon, but I perhaps respect those that change the events before, during, and after the series while still adhering to the mechanics and theory of the canon more than any other writings. Harry taking Draco's hand in the first year and exploring onward from that point is a great deal more entertaining a plot, in my estimation, than Harry waking up with unearthly powers that spit on JKR's lovingly crafted concept of magic, or joining with Buffy Summers to fight off a demon invasion. Again, these stories are possessed of their own unique merits, and I do not doubt that a great many are written above and beyond the novice, and oftentimes pathetic, skill I have used to craft the very fic you're reading now, but that does not make them any better in my eyes.

Now, I bet those of you still stomaching my rambling are wondering how on earth I could possibly be such a raging hypocrite. After all, I'm a walking, talking crossover saying how much he hates crossovers. But Aha! I'll say, and I'll shamelessly quote a recent reviewer, Tanydwr: "It's not really a crossover, (it) just uses the Elves as characters". Yes, I have pointy-eared immortal beings in my story called Elves. But a thousand different series not named _The Lord of the Rings_ have pointy-eared immortal beings called Elves, and I'm fairly certain that they are not all swamped with copyright infringement lawsuits, and this in a culture where anyone can, and does, sue anyone else over anything. Yes, I have Elves. Yes, I have two rather not-subtle references to J.R.R. Tolkien and the best fantasy series without "Harry Potter" in its title. But please, trust me, if for no other reason than that I hope to prove to you that I am not an asinine hypocrite about crossovers, that I will do both the HP series and the concept of Elves justice, or at the very least try my very hardest to do so.

Now, on to the question of a more subtle shade of alternative Harry Potter: Shipping. JKR has been characteristically coy about her romantic visions for the series, but even with the most fine-tooth comb traced through the canon as it stands now, there is undoubtedly a Grand Canyon's worth of wiggle room still remaining for romance-minded HP fanfic authors. I may as well stop beating around the bush and take off my Mr. Snobbish Intellectual hat and come out and say that the ship for this fic is, if anything, H/Hr. I have divined (with Trelawney-like accuracy) certain clues from the series, especially OOtP, that have spelled out the writing on the wall as far as the canon is concerned. This will necessitate a few events during the course of this story – which I will not spoil here (not that in so restraining myself I make any guarantees about ever arriving at the scenes I'll need) – that act on those said clues. To be blunt, I am _not_ a romance author. I _am_ romantic, in the sense of emotional portrayal, challenging the characters, and exploring their feelings, but if you want soap operas and snog/smutfics, I would refer you to www.portkey.org. Hopefully before nine tenths of the fandom still reading this abandons me (and assuming I have ten readers to remove nine from in the first place), I will mention that romance will undoubtedly appear during the course of this story, just as it appeared during the course of OOtP. I only warn you that, in my hands, the term "rearing its ugly head" will apply more than anything else, though I will make a game effort.

Before the author's note gets longer than the chapter above it, and also because I'm honestly not sure that many people read this fic, nevermind these notes, in the first place, I'll go ahead and sign off here. Ye bold few who actually manage to churn through this self-important babble (boy do I love using all those fancy words I know, it makes me feel so special), thank you – really and truly – for reading. I sure would love to tally up a thousand reviews like _Harry Potter and the Truest Power_, or a gigabyte of fan art like _Paradigm of Uncertainty_ (over on Schnoogle – good stuff, though R-rated for you "target age group" HP fans), but since this is only fanfiction and just for fun, so long as one single person is reading and enjoying this story, I can be content.

Merlin's beard, this thing ended up longer than… well, Merlin's beard. I feel like I'm turning into Piro.

(And if only that were a bad thing… I could use his fanbase to salve my ego.)

Okay, really stopping now.

Really.

Never write author's notes at 3:48 AM, or before operating heavy machinery.

Fin.

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A moose once bit my sister…


	8. Chapter Eight: The Mysterious Mr Zonko

**CHAPTER EIGHT - THE MYSTERIOUS MR. ZONKO**

The waning summer sped by faster than any time had right to, and before Harry knew it, August was drawing to a close. He and Ron were making the most of the pleasant weather, spending a great deal of time on their brooms and enjoying the fresh air around the Burrow. Ginny was showing great promise, both in her upcoming transition to Chaser, and, somewhat frighteningly, her informally bestowed role as Quidditch Captain. The boys outwardly regretted the move quite often, but privately Harry had to admit that the determined and no-nonsense Ginny was looking like just the right medicine for a Gryffindor team whose prospects for the upcoming season might otherwise have been considered bleak. It was with some amusement that Harry realized he was to be regarded as the veteran now, when he had spent five years as the proverbial young buck.

Hermione's newfound determination in her crusade to free house-elves had led to a great deal of plotting behind closed doors over the last two weeks. Harry and Ron were content to leave well enough alone, half-afraid whenever they spoke to her that she would remember her promise to enlist their aid in the cause of house-elf rights. Harry actually noted that Ron seemed to be going a bit above and beyond the call of duty in avoiding Hermione, which made it a bit surprising when Harry awoke Thursday morning to the sounds of a heated argument between his two best friends.

They were still going strong by the time he had dressed and moved covertly down the steps. The stealth was unnecessary; the yells were loud enough that his friends probably wouldn't have noticed a herd of elephants stampeding past the Burrow. He found Ginny at the base of the steps. She stopped tossing a small rubber snitch – its flying enchantment appeared to have long since expired – and shot Harry a knowing smile when he sat down beside her to listen in. Eavesdropping wouldn't be the right word, as Harry would have needed to be back at Privet Drive to avoid hearing the row going on around the corner in the living room.

"I swear Ron Weasley, even you could learn a thing or two about politeness if you had spent a week in Japan."

"Oh don't go changing the subject now. This isn't about me, this is about you!"

"What? Am I too _friendly_ for you?" Hermione said. She was sounding rather exasperated.

"_Friendly_ isn't exactly the word for it, if you ask me," Ron shot back heatedly.

Harry got Ginny's attention and pointed to his watch. She held up five fingers, which brought a look of surprise from Harry. A five-minute row was something of a marathon, if he was any judge of the way his friends argued. They were strained to the edges of their ropes by now.

"What business is it of yours if I keep in touch with people I meet?" Hermione went on. "A bit of socializing would certainly do _you_ good: Practice can't hurt, no matter how far you are now from becoming a decent gentleman."

"Don't lecture me about being decent, not with what I just read," rumbled Ron, and Harry heard the sound of a piece of paper being waved about. "It's not proper, even by _my_ standards," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Don't be such a child!" Hermione snapped.

"Oh, so now I'm being a child? You know, I'm starting to think Rita Skeeter was right about you."

Hermione gave a world-weary sigh. "There's no hope for you," she said, and Harry heard the snap of paper being grabbed.

"Hey! Give that back!" yelled Ron. The sound of footsteps sent Harry and Ginny scrambling towards the kitchen table to adopt innocent expressions. "Trying to hide the evidence, are you?" Ron called as Hermione stormed around the corner and began marching up the steps. Ron rounded the bend behind her and had just opened his mouth to shout up the staircase when there was the sound of a vigorously slammed door. Scowling, Ron spun about and marched back into the living room, without even noticing Harry and Ginny.

"Well," Ginny said, rising from the table, "Guess that's our cue then."

"You're lucky," Harry replied, standing as well, "you've at least got the logical one."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't be so sure. Ever since…" she stopped, and gave Harry an odd look. "Well, for a while now she's gotten quite good at wrapping herself up in these rows." She smirked. "With Ron, you just have to have your wand handy for a Stunning Spell."

Harry found his best friend hunched moodily over the chessboard, directing his pieces in a rather vicious assault; the opposing set was moving almost as much for self-preservation as competition. Ron didn't even seem to notice when Harry sat down opposite him, until Harry reached down to intervene on his sides' behalf and take one of Ron's advancing pawns.

"Sorry, didn't see you," Ron muttered.

"So what happened between you and Hermione?" Harry asked carefully, taking another pawn. His friend must have been _very _angry to be losing like this at chess.

Ron had lost another pawn and a rook before he answered, vaguely, "She just doesn't know when to quit."

"Hm. I heard something about a letter."

Ron loosed a rumbling sigh. "She's a regular little chatterbox, always keeping in touch with her penpals; first, Vicky-poo from Bulgaria, and now her friend from Japan. Taro or something," Ron said, his scowl deepening, either from the subject of their talk or the loss of a knight.

Harry just "Hmm"ed along. His aim here was to keep his friends talking, not take sides, and he couldn't think of anything suitably clever to say.

"She's just like Rita Skeeter said," Ron said, now thinking aloud more than talking, and still staring sulkily at the chessboard. "Toying around with everyone. I should never have started going out with her."

There was a moment of glacial silence, filled only by the soft tick-tocking of the grandfather clock. Ron's body had locked completely in place, except for his eyes, which had suddenly widened to immense proportions and started darting back and forth.

Harry just sat there, hand poised halfway through moving his bishop. Some part of his mind was doubting what he had just heard. Another part was grinding away at the speed of a trip through the Floo Network. Another part, the one Harry was most conscious of, was slightly curious as to why he didn't feel more surprised.

"Er, I, uh, well…" Ron was stammering, his ears turning red.

Harry was still frozen while his mind lolled about, less from the shock and more from waiting and wondering when the lightning bolt would actually hit him. Several more seconds of Ron's helpless stuttering went by, until Harry loosed a quick guffaw. Then another. A moment later, Harry was struggling for breath through his laughter.

Ron had regained control of his body, and was sitting up and looking at Harry with a mix of concern and confusion. "Er… I didn't quite catch the joke, mate."

Harry fought down his cachinnations and wiped away a tear. "I…" he sucked in a breath, "I don't know what to say."

"Well, laughing sure wouldn't be my first reaction," Ron observed cagily.

"Sorry," Harry said seriously, finally regaining a straight face. "I'm not sure what came over me." He quirked his head. "How long has this been going on?"

Ron looked around sheepishly. "Since… er, since last summer."

_That_ set Harry back. More than the initial revelation, in truth.

"Wow," he breathed, leaning back in his rocking chair. "That long? How could I…?"

"We weren't very, er… obvious about it," Ron admitted. "It started at Grimmauld place, actually, and when you got there we didn't want to… agitate you," Ron said carefully. "It started off just talking together. You were, well, _moody_, and we were always trying to figure out what to do."

Harry chuckled. "The fact that I was a prat most of last year has already been noted in the record."

Ron smiled, and finally started to look a little relieved. "We kept it up during the year. We were always together for Prefect duties, anyway, plus she kept roping me into making those infernal hats for the house-elves… we figured out the plan to get you to teach us Defense class, too… After that, it was just kind of, you know, _there_. By the time you went out with Cho, we didn't even think to tell you."

Harry just maintained his slightly half-dazed, half-amused expression, rocking back and forth in his chair.

"You probably couldn't even call it dating," Ron plowed on confidently, now that he saw how well Harry was taking this revelation. "I guess it's old news that I'm not much with flowers and candy." Ron paused thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, the only thing we do different is fight even more often."

Harry laughed again. "_That_ I noticed."

Ron looked him doubtfully. "You're sure you're not… you know… mad?"

Harry stopped and thought about that, but for some reason this news still wasn't striking him as hard as he'd have thought it would. Maybe it was because of Ron and Hermione's definition of "going out" – it wasn't exactly candlelit dinners at Madam Puddifoot's, after all – but that didn't seem to fit. Maybe it was because of how close he, Ron, and Hermione had always been as friends – for two of them to start dating certainly wasn't any great leap of logic – but that wasn't right, either. After a long moment, he just gave up trying to rationalize it out. The only thing he _was_ certain of was that the news didn't make him _mad_, as Ron had obviously feared. He grinned reassuringly and shrugged.

"I've got no room to critique anyone else's love life," he said. "My only date so far has been an utter disaster."

Ron heaved a long sigh, obviously relieved. "You know, I hadn't even thought about it for the longest time, but it feels good to get that out."

A short while later, Hermione suffered a worse shock than either of the boys when they let her know that the jig was up. Her relief was just as dramatic as Ron's, though, when Harry finally convinced her that he wasn't going to curse them into oblivion for hiding the news behind his back.

It was a lucky side-effect that Harry's discovery seemed to drive the latest feud from Ron and Hermione's minds, leaving everyone on good terms once more. It was even more fortunate considering that today was the day for them to head into Diagon Alley to shop for their school supplies. Mrs. Weasley normally did all the shopping for them, but not this year: It was far too good an excuse for a visit to Fred and George at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

For once, the four teenagers were allowed to travel without escort, and with a pinch of Floo powder and a dizzying ride, they began to arrive dusty and smiling in number ninety-three, Diagon Alley. Harry, who was the first one through, narrowly avoided toppling a crowd of young shoppers when he shot out of the fireplace. Their eyes grew extra-wide when they looked up to see none other than Harry Potter brushing himself off before their very eyes.

Harry suppressed a grimace when the all-too-familiar buzz began to fill the air around him.

"Oy, what's all this ruckus— Harry!" one of the twins shouted. "Hey, make room you lot!" Harry watched as Fred began pushing through the growing crowd. They managed to clear enough space just in time for Ron to come skidding out of the fireplace.

"Bugger off, this is a joke shop, not a wax museum!" Fred said, shooing away the remaining rubberneckers in time for Ginny and Hermione to emerge from their trip. "School shopping, eh? Well, if you're looking for the stuff Mum would never pick up for, you made the right first stop," Fred commented, grinning.

Ron craned his neck, trying to look over the tall shelves stacked full of boxes and wrappers stamped with the star-strewn triple-W label of Fred and George's new enterprise. "Where's George?"

"On the register. It's been a madhouse all day," Fred replied happily.

Harry turned about, taking a good look around the store. The twins had been working for the better part of two years on inventing products and getting ready to open their own shop, but Harry had never realized just how much work they must have done until now. The premises weren't nearly as large as some of the bigger stores in Diagon Alley such as Flourish and Blotts, but what space Fred and George had was absolutely packed with both shelves and people taking things off of them. The back and side walls were covered floor to ceiling, and three tall rows of racks ran lengthwise from the displays in the front windows back to the counter and register, just as overflowing.

"You've been busy," Harry said, impressed.

Fred hooked his thumb under the sleeves of his uniform jacket, which had brightly-colored triple-Ws flashing in succession. "And never better." He glanced at his watch and then shrugged, muttering something that sounded like "close enough" before turning and shouting over the conversant hum of the shop and occasional ring of the register.

"Attention Wheezy shoppers: The store's closing for lunch… so skat!"

Hermione frowned. "Do you always talk to your customers like this?" she wondered.

Fred gave her a questioning look. "Like how? They keep coming back, don't they?"

Hermione didn't seem to know quite how to reply to that.

The customers had shuffled out within a few minutes, and Fred led them over to the counter where George was thumbing through the till, counting under his breath. He finished, pushed the drawer shut with a sharp clack, and looked up.

"Afternoon," he said cheerily. "You con Fred into giving you an exclusive shot at the merchandise?"

"Nah, I just got tired of the racket," the other twin replied.

George rapped his knuckles on the side of the register; it gave a solid sound, like a full barrel. "That's the only sound I care about," he said with a smirk. His gaze drifted over Ginny's shoulder, and his eyebrows knitted. "Hey, store's closed for lunch, mate. You can come back in thirty minutes like the rest."

The rest of them turned, where Harry saw a wizard – at least he thought it was a wizard – who was dressed quite oddly, even by the standards of the magical world. A heavy black trench coat, which was far too short for its wearer and only just reached his knees, was draped over a set of overlarge (judging by the fact that they pooled deeply around the man's feet) robes of a slightly putrid greenish-brown. The man also wore a pair of vividly pink gloves and a pointed black hat with a brim so wide it drooped down all the way over the man's neck and face. Harry wondered how the stranger could possibly see the box of Skiving Snackboxes he was holding up.

"Oy, did you hear us?" Fred called, slightly annoyed, when the wizard made no move for several seconds.

"Yes, I heard you," a masculine but thickly muffled voice replied. The stranger turned towards them, and while Harry still couldn't see the man's face, he saw the trails of a wooly lime-green scarf stuffed into the front of the coat. "I was hoping to speak to you alone, actually," the man said, his upper body turning to – Harry could only assume – look around.

Fred seemed to be teetering between amusement and annoyance, while George was regarding the stranger with slightly narrowed eyes. "And what did you want to talk to us about?" the latter asked warily.

There was a sound that might have been the man clearing his throat. "I mean the two of you. The owners," he elaborated.

Fred snorted. "If you want to file a complaint, either owl it or you can do it in front of the crowd." He looked to his side and smirked. "Not like this lot can be surprised about anything we've done, I'd wager."

The stranger lumbered forward, and there was the sound of scuffling boots beneath the rumpled folds of robes at his feet. He stopped a couple feet short of Fred, but leaned forward, pushing the front brim of his hat close enough that the twin actually arched backwards, arms folded and one eyebrow raised. "It's not a complaint," the man said. "I only assumed you would like a bit of privacy to entertain the business offer I have for you."

George leaned forward, dropping an elbow on the counter with a clunk. "And, pray tell," he said in a slightly bored voice, "what 'business offer' do you have, Mr…?"

The stranger swiveled back and forth once more, far enough that he might have been looking over his shoulders. He stopped and leaned even farther forward. "Zonko. Euphrates Zonko."

There was a very pregnant pause, and Harry imagined that everyone else must have been staring just as he was. "Zonko" was a name that brought one thing instantly to mind: The popular joke shop in Hogsmeade.

It was Fred who broke the silence. "Riiight," he drawled sarcastically. "And I'm Sperkle Filibuster. Pleased to meet you." He held out a hand.

Zonko straightened sharply. There was another pause, then Harry heard what could only have been – assuming the man was not incredibly thin-skinned and prone to fits of sobbing – laughter from beneath the innumerable layers of clothing.

"Oh, that's good, quite good!" Zonko said between chuckles, his pink-gloved hands moving to his midriff as the trench coat began bobbing up and down with laughter.

Fred withdrew his hand, eyeing the man dubiously.

After a moment, Zonko's laughter died away, and he leaned forward once more. "You lads have caught my eye with what you've done here," he said, waving to indicate the rest of the shop. "Remind me of two of myself when I was your age, you do."

"Thanks," George replied, still somewhat doubtfully.

"You see, I've been looking to expand for a while now," Zonko went on. "Diagon Alley was the logical choice, of course, and the shop you have here, well, it's simply perfect! Better than I could have dreamed!" His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible through all his attire. "That's why I decided to make you an offer you can't refuse."

Fred and George shared a look. "Maybe we'll be interested," said Fred thoughtfully.

"Maybe we won't," George added guardedly.

"Well then, I can see the two of you are no fools," Zonko said, punctuated by another round of looking over his shoulders. "What would you say to seven thousand, then?" he whispered. "It's more than fair, I think," he added, raising his hands.

Harry could see the sparkle of interest when the twins shared another, slightly wide-eyed, look. But just as quickly, it was gone, and they were wearing poker faces when they turned back towards Zonko.

"I'm not sure," George replied slowly. "We've already put an awful lot into these premises, haven't we, Fred?"

"No doubt," Fred said matter-of-factly, leaning back with both elbows propped up on the counter behind him. "A significant investment, to be sure."

Zonko's coat bobbed back and forth as he looked to each of the twins. "Well, that's a reasonable point," he conceded neutrally. "In consideration of your efforts, then… I'll go up to eight."

Harry, no stranger to windfalls, was finding it hard to catch his breath. Ron looked near to a heart attack.

Fred and George maintained their composure perfectly this time when they exchanged another glance.

"And what would we do with all this pre-produced merchandise?" Fred said distantly, his gaze drifting around the shop at all the laden shelves and racks.

"Yes, a very good question…" George said with a prolonged nod. "We certainly wouldn't want to part with all our secret designs and recipes easily."

Zonko wrung his pink-gloved hands together. "Well…" he began, and his hesitation was evident even through the tiers of fabric. "Nine thousand then," he said reluctantly.

Ron loosed a strangled squeak.

"And considering how uncertain the markets for some of your products are, I find that most generous," Zonko added firmly.

The twins shared a third long, scrutinizing look. Fred brought his head back around languidly and looked at Zonko. The anticipation grew thick.

"Nope," he said flippantly.

Zonko jerked sharply in obvious surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"The answer is no," George repeated flatly. "We've only just started here, after all."

"We have not yet begun to joke!" Fred said, grinning.

Zonko's hat twitched several times before Harry caught the distinct sound of a stamped boot. "Fine, then! If you can't accept an abundantly – no, ridiculously! – generous offer—"

"Oh, shove your charity, mate," Fred replied sharply. "We can make twice your 'generous offer' before you even say Ton-Tongue Toffee."

The man gave a huff from beneath his floppy hat. "We'll see about that," he snapped, before spinning and shuffling rapidly for the exit. He shoved open the door, causing the tiny bell attached to ring angrily, but as soon as one foot was out the door, a deafening klaxon began wailing. The enshrouded man looked about in alarm, then whirled about, fists shaking in anger.

"Now if I didn't know better, I'd think you were stealing," Fred observed, after silencing the alarm with a wave of his wand.

An indistinct stream of mutters and curses came from the man as he reached into his baggy pockets and began dropping an assortment of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes merchandise to the ground. He discarded a Skiving Snackbox with an emphatic toss, spun about once more, and stormed out of the shop with as much fury as his oversized robes would allow.

"Think that really was Zonko?" Fred wondered, waving his wand at the scattered pile of stock by the door and zipping the packages back to their proper places.

"I'm almost sure of it," said George. "If he'd just wanted to nick some goods, he would've tried to leave with the crowd."

"Probably," Fred replied.

"You _turned him down_?" Ron gasped suddenly.

The twins turned to regard their brother with amusement. "I wondered when you'd catch up to us," Fred chuckled.

"Bloody hell," Ron breathed. "The day I say no to nine thousand galleons…" he trailed off, apparently unable to think of a suitable analogy.

"That's business, little brother," George informed him sagely. "Just look here," he said, ducking behind the counter and coming back up with a small wooden box in hand. He placed it on the counter and tugged open the lid with a creak.

"What you see on the shelves is just the beginning," Fred stated, reaching over to pluck a long, thin string from the box. "Just because we've got our own shop now doesn't mean we've stopped cooking up great new stuff," he told them, tearing open one end of the plastic wrapping around the string. "For example: Leaping Licorice," he said with a smile, tearing off tiny, quarter-inch segments of the candy and handing them out.

Harry eyed his sample doubtfully.

"Oh, don't worry," George assured him. "It only does what the name says, and with a bite that small you won't even need to be worrying about the ceiling. Well, Ron might," he added, as soon as his brother had swallowed his morsel of licorice.

Almost as soon as he had, Ron wavered unsteadily on his heels. As though the ground beneath him had turned into a trampoline, he began springing up and down in slowly increasing jumps, until he was bouncing easily three feet off the floor, laughing and waving his arms in circles.

Harry shrugged and chewed down his bite of the new invention. He instantly felt as if his shoes had sprouted springs. Within seconds, he, Hermione, and Ginny were all vaulting about alongside Ron.

"Just watch the shelves!" Fred laughed, as Ginny began venturing away from the counter.

"Amazing!" gasped Ron, his voice shifting in Doppler as he bounced.

Harry felt his leaps starting to decrease in strength as he twisted in midair to look at the twins. "Where do you come up with all this stuff?" he asked with amazement.

"The Weasley think-tank never rests," said George.

"You'd be surprised," Fred confided. "The Leaping Licorice, believe it or not, came from a surge of inspiration almost three years back, in Binn's class."

"The perfect place for daydreaming, was it?" Ginny said, giggling.

"No," George replied with a shake of his head. "The one time we actually listened to that spacey old specter, back when he was talking about Greek mythology. You can get some crazy ideas when you're talking about the antics of gods," he observed.

Harry's jumps were reaching only a few inches now, though Ron was still going strong, his red hair almost brushing the ceiling. "What else have you come up with?" Harry inquired.

"Let's see," Fred said, shifting over and rooting through the box. "There's—"

He was cut off by a sharp thud. "Ouch!" Ron moaned, rubbing his backside as he struggled back to his feet.

"Well, now you know why those aren't for sale yet," George said wryly. "Sometimes they wear off a bit suddenly."

"No kidding?" Ron replied testily.

Fred gave a snort of laughter, and then went back to digging through the rest of their still-experimental jokes. "Anyway, let's see… there's Rubberizer Rings; if you'd've had one of these, Harry, that bludger in second year would've bounced right off… here's those Tempest Tarts; hmm, still need to dilute those, I remember we near destroyed our dormitory in Gryffindor Tower once with the thunderbolts… and, oh, Dapper Drops – you might want one of these, Ron – they've got a Beauty Charm, perfect for getting a good first impression. Remember how we thought of them, George?"

"Yeah," he replied, sniggering. "Got the idea from that Trojan bird: 'The face that launched a thousand ships' or summat."

"Hey, wait a tick… That gives me an idea," George said. He had taken on a faraway look, one corner of his mouth tugging up.

"Should we take cover?" Ginny whispered to Harry.

"Fred," called George, snapping back to reality. "Remember how I told you about taking out an ad in the _Daily Prophet_?"

"Yeah, what of it?" Fred asked.

"Don't you think it would be a big boost to sales if we got, say, a celebrity promoter?"

The smile left Harry's face, and was quickly replaced by a sudden instinctive urge for self-preservation.

Fred, meanwhile, was catching on to his brother's idea, and sprouting an identically mischievous grin. "It certainly would," he said.

Even though he had been expecting it, Harry couldn't help but flinch when both the twins turned to look straight at him.

"Oh, no," Harry said, shaking his head and taking an involuntary step back.

"Oh, yes," Fred corrected, nodding.

"You can't be serious," Hermione said doubtfully. "I mean, it's not illegal or anything, strictly speaking, but—"

"You're not helping, Hermione," Harry interrupted out of the corner of his mouth.

"Come on, Harry, be a sport!" George said jauntily.

"We'll even write your ringing endorsements for you," Fred offered, "And just put your smiling face with the ad."

"We'll even pay you," George added. "In Galleons or merchandise; your choice!"

"Er—" Harry stalled. He glanced urgently at Hermione. "You're sure there's no rules against it?"

Hermione shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, Harry."

After a last desperate look around, as though hoping a Ministry decree preventing underage wizards from advertising might spring out of the wall, Harry sighed and slumped in defeat.

"Smashing!" George exclaimed, hopping over and giving Harry a vigorous slap on the back.

"You'll be the face that sold a thousand Snackboxes!" Fred said happily. He stopped, and his face shifted to a frown. "Well, that sounded better in my head, but still!" he brightened again immediately.

"Cheer up, mate," Ron said, half-suppressing a grin as he moved over to put a hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry knew he'd never find the heart to tell Fred and George no, so with another resigned sigh, he shrugged and looked to the silver lining. After all, it wasn't like the twins had just asked to hire him on as a product tester, after all; and what harm could a little picture in the paper be if it was for a good cause? Merlin knew that he'd had his face plastered in the _Daily Prophet_ next to things much worse than a little advertisement.

"You can come back when you're done with your shopping. We'll rustle up a camera by then," George said, giving Harry one last shake at the shoulders before walking back to the counter. "And it won't even hurt, I promise," he added, beaming innocently.

"We'd best get a move on, too," Hermione said, glancing at her watch. "I'm already hoping Flourish and Blotts won't have run out of all the books I need."

Ron took on a befuddled look. "Books?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Yes, books. You know, two covers, a spine, with some pages in between?"

"But we don't know which ones we need, do we?"

She gaped at him. "You mean you haven't even selected your classes for next year yet?"

"Well, no," Ron said simply.

"Harry, tell him!" Hermione said, annoyed.

"Er—" Harry muttered, though he at least knew to feel sheepish. "Well, I hadn't gotten around to filling out the form yet…"

Hermione just shook her head, staring at them. "You two are hopeless," she said, turning to head out the door.

"Come on," Harry said to Ron when the bell on the door rang as it closed behind Hermione. "I hope you remember which classes you qualified for O.W.L.-level in."

"Ahem."

Ron and Harry turned to see Ginny standing, a broad smile on her face, and waving a sheaf of paper in each hand. "I saw these still laying in your room just before we left, and I thought you might need them," she said, handing each boy their O.W.L. scores and sixth year class selection form.

"You're a life-saver, Ginny," Ron said with relief.

"Don't mention it," she replied. "After all, I can't have my star Seeker and Keeper getting tossed out of school, can I?"

.

.

.

.

A/N - No matter how I wrote it, I just couldn't get through the first scene of this chapter without fearing it was terribly contrived, not to mention conspicuously convenient, considering my author's note for chap. 7. Now you know why I don't write romance.

One thing I noticed when re-reading chapters six and seven recently was that, despite their warm reception by my readers (which I appreciate immensely), there was a distinct… _hurriedness_ to the writing. Very little time was taken for descriptions or pauses, to allow readers to take a mental breath and absorb important points that are embedded within the text. That is likely why one reviewer commented, quite accurately, that there doesn't seem to be much in the way of a conflict yet in this plot. To be perfectly honest, I made a cardinal mistake in writing by failing to properly establish a conflict early in this story. Just re-read the pre-Hogwarts sections of the canon and you'll find that there's always something there to at least get your mind warmed up. By shuffling the Dursleys to the side in lieu of a (hopefully) memorable introduction for the Elves, I sacrificed the most convenient early-pages instrument of contention. I suppose, in hindsight, I spent a bit too much time planning the events slated occur when the Trio get to Hogwarts, and not enough on those before. By now, of course, this is a water-over-the-bridge observation.

It was apparent from my reviews that I need to better qualify my earlier statements on the romantic clues sifted from the canon. When I said that this fic is shipping H/Hr, followed by my "I have divined (with Trelawney-like accuracy) certain clues from the series" remark, I gave the false impression that I've determined the canon to be H/Hr. To the contrary (obviously, unless you skipped the chapter above to read this note), I've seen strong indications that – at this moment– the canon is very R/Hr. After all, even the most mature characters aren't capable (as portrayed in dramatic fiction, which the HP series undoubtedly is, among other genres) of Hermione's attitude in regard to offering Harry relationship advice if she were smitten with him, and it's quite apparent – being that the story is told from Harry's perspective – that he doesn't think of Hermione as more than a very close friend at this point in time. 'At this moment', 'at this point in time'; yes, I still have my caveats. After all, for the better part of three books the HP series was looking like quite the Harry/Cho story. It is with that in mind, and the freedom afforded a fanfic author in hand, that I choose to explore a possible H/Hr-slanted eventuality.

To extrapolate further, when I call this fic a H/Hr, it is more an indication of it being a Harry/Hermione _centric_ fic than a Harry/Hermione _romantic_ fic. They are amazingly complementary characters as I see them (just look at how well they read each other in OotP: Harry notices her false sobs in Umbridge's office, they fight _extremely_ well as a team in the Department of Mysteries, etc.), but romance is a difficult animal to tame in the best of times, and my success with writing it has been quite atrocious. That is why I register this as a drama/action/adventure fic. Had I a third pull-down choice, it would be mystery; a fourth, suspense… In any case, one can ascertain that romance is not a primary element of this fic. I try not to publicly pigeonhole my own stories, especially in the middle of _writing_ them, for fear of driving away what few readers I seem to attract. With nearly one hundred and thirty _thousand_ fanfics posted on this site alone, dedicated readers are an elusive and immeasurably valuable commodity. It is perhaps even worse than the competition for publishing and patronage in reality: Even considering the vastness of the HP fandom, I would imagine the ratio of fanfic writers to fanfic readers is strikingly equal, if not even lopsided towards the _former_. I know I am certainly remiss in venturing through the vast resources of sites like FF.net and Schnoogle, reading and posting reviews for authors who crave just as much attention as I do, and often deserve it far more.

Review Comments Section:  
It was reviews that sparked my little essay last chapter, so I'll just make use of a more formal and structured section for specific questions from now on.

Always remember that no matter what I say here, comments and constructive criticism are vastly appreciated. I'm a card-carrying nitpicker myself; for you to catch something I didn't only encourages me to work harder, which is a good thing!

**David305**:   
1) Wizards are, in the end, just as human as the rest of us. It's a fine line to balance our own perceptions of magic – after all, to us it will _always_ be special and powerful. But put yourself in a wizard's shoes, and '_Lumos_' is flicking on a flashlight. What I'm trying to say is that magic is a tool to them, just as electronics are to us. In my estimation, 'the old-fashioned way' means the same thing, whether wizard or Muggle; getting back to the basic employment of your own two hands. Their first instinct would be to employ magic to raise the tent (I suppose I might've made Flitwick's line a bit more explicit in its emotion, but see the first paragraph of this author's note for the best explanation I can provide), but just as the mood might strike one of us in reality to employ a cruder method in the same situation (such as a 'barn-raising' style), a similar fancy was put upon the wizards.   
2) This is neither here nor there; JKR hasn't explicitly stated Flitwick as goblin, but neither has she explicitly stated him as human – dwarf or otherwise. His hair and facial structure in the film are countered, as you mentioned, by the makeup of his nose and fingers, so this is something of a stalemate point.   
3) The house-elves weren't doing the cooking. In fact, you'll notice no mention of them taking part in the preparations for the wedding or cookout at all. This was deliberate, and I hope the presence of the events on the Hogwarts grounds didn't lead to too many mistaken conclusions by my readers. Again, I can only apologize that my attention to detail was somewhat tersely constructed over the prior two chapters.

**s.s.idget**: Training fics are something I won't get into, at the risk of turning this section into another encyclopedia. I'll just say that the only 'training' I employ is that of Hogwarts classes, and the Elves are intended to serve a different purpose.

**funvince**: Percy isn't forgotten, have no fear. There just didn't seem to be any way to slip in a mention of his absence during the wedding without begging an explanation, which always broke the flow and mood of the chapter.

**prof****. spider**: The Sorting Hat's new song was the first thing I wrote for this fic. I still have it scribbled down on a crumpled piece of old steno paper.

Thanks to one and all of my reviewers! From attaboys on down, your reviews are always appreciated!


	9. Chapter Nine: Final Arrangements

**CHAPTER NINE - FINAL ARRANGEMENTS**

S ome things had changed since Harry had last been to Diagon Alley, but one thing was just the same as always: The one stop for anything a wizard could need was as crowded as ever. The four teenagers wended their way through the press of wizards and witches, surrounded by lively chatter as the towering sight of Gringotts Wizarding Bank rose above the rest of the buildings.

They exited the flow of shoppers and made their way up the white stone steps. They passed through the familiar set of gleaming bronze doors, but as soon as they stepped inside, Harry came up short, causing Ron to bump into his back.

"Hey, what's—" Ron began, before he caught sight of what had stopped Harry.

The Gringotts anteroom was larger than Harry remembered, and the engraved silver doors at the back were the only familiar sight. A pair of goblins flanked the entrance, but these were not the scarlet-and-gold clad goblins of the usual bank staff. They stood at rapt attention, wearing gold-buttoned sky blue coats and navy blue pants with golden stripes down the side. They also wore maroon berets, and the letters "IGDL" were embossed in silver on the front of both their coats and caps. Long wooden staves polished to a reflective sheen were locked at their sides.

Harry narrowed his eyes as he moved forward, followed cautiously by Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. A tall black archway extended over the silver doors, and another uniformed goblin swaggered up, holding up a hand indicating them to halt.

"Please present your wands for inspection," the goblin instructed them curtly.

After a moment's hesitation, the four teenagers brought out their wands and handed them over. The goblin walked back to the archway, where he reached up and pressed one long finger against the smooth black surface. A small slot popped open, into which the goblin slid the four wands one by one.

There was a soft whirring sound for several seconds, and then each wand slid back out of the same slot and into the goblins waiting hands. There were small strips of paper wrapped around the tip of each wand, which the goblin held up to the light and read carefully before walking back to the four teens.

"What's the IGDL?" Ron asked curiously as the goblin handed him back his wand.

"Please conduct your business quickly," the goblin said, ignoring the question while he returned the other wands. "Loitering within secured areas of will not be tolerated." He shuffled to one side and waved for the four of them to pass.

Inside the silver doors, at least, Gringotts looked much the same as always – at least at first glance. While the long counter and rows of stools were just where Harry had seen them last, there was an odd disquiet that seemed to permeate the air of the vast marble hall. Goblins writing in ledgers or counting coins and gems were hunched over a little too busily. The goblins guiding customers towards the numerous doors down to the vaults walked a little faster than was casual. And the customers themselves went about in a faintly nervous way, often with a bowed head, straight-ahead stare, and relentless gait from one point to the next.

Harry was rather abruptly reminded that all was not well in the wizarding world.

"Come on," he said, leading his friends to one of the available tellers.

"Name," the goblin said brusquely.

"Harry Potter."

"Wand."

Harry blinked, and then once again handed over his wand.

The goblin held up the attached strip of paper to the light, just as the door guard in the anteroom had. After a moment, the goblin tore off the strip and handed Harry back his wand.

They repeated the process three more times before the goblin finally summoned one of the attendants. "Two vaults for withdrawal, Loblock," the teller said to the other goblin.

"I'll meet you back up here," said Hermione, who didn't have a Gringotts vault and would simply be exchanging Muggle currency with the teller.

The teller gave the other three paper slips to the guide, who led Harry, Ron, and Ginny back through the doors to the torchlit stone passageways, where the goblin summoned a rickety cart.

"I don't suppose _you_ could tell me what the IGDL is?" Ron asked Loblock, shouting over the rush of air and creaking of the cart along the tracks.

Their attendant didn't even seem to notice the question.

"Friendly bunch, aren't they?" Ron groused, barely loud enough for Harry and Ginny to hear.

"Things do seem a bit edgy, don't they?" observed Ginny.

"Hagrid once told me that Gringotts was the safest place in the wizarding world except for Hogwarts," Harry told them. "I wonder if they've switched."

Ginny frowned. "There's a difference between being safe and being paranoid. We were supposed to be 'safer' with a bunch of dementors floating around three years ago, remember?"

"Don't remind me," said Ron with a shiver.

They arrived at Harry's vault, where Loblock took his key and opened his safe without so much as a word. Harry hastily scooped some gold and silver into his bag, and the cart set off once more. The process was repeated at the Weasleys' vault, and they began the trip back to the surface.

"Are you sure this is enough?" Ron asked sourly, peering into the purse he and Ginny had brought. His feelings towards his family's financial situation were probably skewed, Harry thought, by the nine thousand galleons Fred and George had just so casually declined. Harry would have offered to share all his fortune with the Weasleys in a heartbeat, if he thought for a second they would accept.

The cart rumbled to a stop, dropping the three teenagers off. Hermione was waiting for them on one of the benches near the exit, focused intently on some papers in her lap. She looked up when they approached.

"Good, you're back. First thing's first," she said, a businesslike gaze spitted on Harry and Ron. "We need to get your course schedules filled out. So sit."

Ron glowered, but made no argument, and took a step towards the bench.

"I've got a better idea," said Harry. "Let's head to the Leaky Cauldron and work on them there. And lunch is on me. No arguments," he added quickly, smiling and pointing a finger at each of his friends, who had all opened their mouths to protest.

-- --- --

The Leaky Cauldron was much like Gringotts. It looked the same, even smelled the same, but there was something in the air. Gringotts had held a faintly overbearing sense of vigilance, like you couldn't move without being noticed. The old pub that bordered Diagon Alley and Muggle London, though, possessed an underlying tension as thick as pipe smoke. When they walked inside, heads turned fractionally to observe them out of the corners of a dozen sets of eyes, then after a moment, dismissed them and turned back to tankards and whispered conversations.

They took a table near the fireplace and tried to ignore the persistent feeling of being watched. Hermione set Harry and Ron to work on their course schedules, pecking at them like a mother hen.

"I thought you saved this attitude for homework," Ron griped as Hermione tried to explain his course requirements.

"This will determine the entire course of the rest of our schooling!" she explained in a heated whisper. "You may not think it's important, Ron Weasley, but when – if, at this rate! – you graduate, you'll be grateful you picked the classes that can help you find a job!"

"And which are those?" he grumbled dolefully. "Not like there's much I'm fit for anyway, with five measly O.W.L.s. Maybe Fred and George need someone to organize their shelves in the shop," he finished disgustedly, slumping back into his chair.

Hermione's gaze softened a bit. "Come on, Ron, don't sell yourself short. You've got five classes to choose from, with plenty of variety." She held up a hand and began counting off fingers as she read. "Charms, Herbology, Defense, Care of Magical Creatures, and Divination."

"Look on the bright side, mate," said Harry, putting on a wry grin. "No more Potions."

Ron gave a sharp sniff of laughter, then sighed as he sat up again. "I wasn't too keen on more Transfiguration, either. Small favors, I guess…" his brow furrowed. "Is Firenze is coming back to teach Divination again?"

"Probably," Harry replied. "He can't exactly go back to the forest, can he?"

"Good point," said Ron. "I wonder who we'll get stuck with for Defense this year."

"Whoever it is, they can't possibly be worse than Umbridge," Harry said fervently.

"And if they are, there's always Dumbledore's Army," Hermione said, smiling.

"You think anyone will risk coming back for D.A., after what happened last year?" said Harry.

"Well, you said it yourself; no Umbridge. And the _Daily Prophet_ said earlier this summer that the position of Hogwarts High Inquisitor has been disbanded."

"You think they might bring Professor Lupin back?" Harry wondered.

Hermione looked thoughtful. "Well… It's certainly a possibility, with Dumbledore back in charge."

"Wouldn't he have said something about it if he were, though?" Ginny pointed out. "It's not like we haven't seen him this summer."

"Whoever it is, so long as they're not Ministry-appointed or downing Polyjuice potion I'll consider it a good start," Harry said flatly.

Ron sighed heavily and threw down his course schedule. "I suppose I should just take all of them, shouldn't I?"

"That's the spirit," Hermione said encouragingly. "Keep your options open for when N.E.W.T.s come around."

Ron groaned and slumped even further into his chair this time. "Did you have to remind me?"

Hermione smiled and shook her head ruefully.

Harry examined his own prospects, which were straightforward enough. He was in the same boat as Ron, though he'd qualified for Professor McGonagall's N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration class and also had renewed appointment with Snape that he still wasn't sure whether to regret or be thankful for. The more he thought, though, the less reason he saw – logically, at least – to do anything but just go ahead and put in for all seven classes. With a resolved nod, he began scribbling down to do just that.

"So which classes are you taking, Hermione?" he asked as he wrote.

"Oh, all of them," she replied matter-of-factly.

Harry smiled. He just couldn't be surprised. "You did hear what Mr. Weasley said about Bill, didn't you?"

"Don't worry, I'll manage," she assured him. "I just can't stand the thought of dropping any of my classes."

"Not planning on picking up another Time Turner, are you?" Ron asked jokingly.

Hermione actually shuddered slightly. "Absolutely not."

The old bartender of the Leaky Cauldron, Tom, walked up with a tray filled with their lunch orders. "Sixth years already, eh?" he said, after glancing at the parchment spread across their table. He looked at Harry. "Seems like only yesterday you were showin' up for the first time in my door, just a wee lad at Hagrid's hip. Not that anyone looks big at Hagrid's hip, o' course," he chuckled.

"Hey, Tom," Ron piped up, his voice curious. "At Gringotts earlier today, we saw a bunch of security goblins, and they were wearing 'IGDL' logos. What's that all about?"

"The goblins have been right cagey the last few months, ever since the…" he looked around fretfully. "Well, you know, the big news. The goblins ain't never trusted wizards any great bit, so they got together to watch their own backs. The IGDL stands for 'Independent Goblin Defense League', yeh see."

"Goblins have formed their own alliance?" said Hermione.

"Aye," Tom nodded, placing a salad in front of the bushy-haired girl. "And between the four o' you and me, they're the best off," he said quietly. He sighed heavily. "The Ministry's been busy, but they ain't really been _busy_, yeh know what I mean? 'Full o' sound and fury', and all that."

"What do you mean?" Ginny asked. "We saw Minister Fudge just a couple weeks ago, and he certainly looked worried enough."

Tom shook his head as he put down bowls of stew. "He's worried, all right. Too worried to do much, as I hear it. He's afraid, yeh see, has been ever since the bad news broke. Nobody would let him hear the end of it, how the Ministry kept it quiet. And now, all he's doing is _lookin_' busy, but not really _doin_' anything. That way, he can't do anything wrong, yeh know?"

"But that's horrible!" Ginny gasped. "How can anyone let that happen?"

Tom smiled sadly as he took their drinks off his tray. "Lass, three times I've had me a busboy here in the Cauldron. Three times I never let five minutes go by without checkin' to make sure they were busy. And three times this bar ain't never been dirtier."

At that, they lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

Tom paused and looked around warily. "Hope'n it's not too much for me to say," he whispered in Harry's ear as he leaned in close to place a platter of bread on the table. "But I need to tell yeh that we're all behind you… and we're all counting on you." His smile was solid, but nervous, as he placed a hand briefly on Harry shoulder before collecting his tray and walking back to the bar.

Harry didn't say much while they ate, or all through the rest of the day for that matter, and when they finished their shopping and stopped by the twins' store for them to take Harry's picture for their advertisements, he hoped his smile didn't look as forced as it felt.

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A/N - I debated for a while, but eventually decided it was better to post this "snippet" chapter rather than flesh it out with superfluous events or make it the precursor to the train ride. The former would make it drag, which is something I've already done too much of in this story. The latter would make it both too great in length and too long in coming. I only hope I haven't exhausted everyone's patience; the plot will pick up from now on, I promise!

Hm... I actually can't think of anything else to say. Which is good, I guess, or else I'd end up with an author's note that really was longer than the chapter it was attached to.

Mark your calendars to remember this momentous event, people, and hope that my loss for words doesn't extend into the fic itself.


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